Cosa Nostra
by Av H
Summary: Special Spamano fic dedicated to my awesome and dear Spamano maniac friend for Christmas! It's based on the historical background of the Sicilian Mafia during the First Mafia War starring Mafia! Romano. Rated T for swearing and violence xD
1. Part 1

_First of all, Merry Christmas too everyone! I'd just like to make a special dedication of this story to my friend, who loves Spamano to pieces and has vied for a Mafia! Spamano fic for some time now. I usually don't write romance, but I'm doing this for a good cause...hopefully o.O anywayz, I google translated all of the Italian and Spanish phrases, so correct me if I'm wrong. ^^ i don't speak a word of either, so yeah...but I did do a lot of historical research and I made it as accurate as possible, just like usual. Old habits die hard. Enjoiiiii!~_

* * *

><p><em>Cosa Nostra<em>: Part 1

**Palermo, Italy, 1962**

The darkest hour. Moonless. Musty, damp, and crumbling were all the nooks and crannies, every house and every alley. The night was their shroud, the shadows their valuable yet dishonest companion. The silence was a double-edged blade, coldblooded and cruel, sharper than any sword, faster than any arrow. This was the darkest hour, no more and no less. Only 60 minutes. 3600 seconds. But each second, the blade was ready. It sensed blood. It tasted blood. It saw blood.

This they all knew. Every single one, from the boys with cold trembling hands to the old men with the thick stink of cigars wafting about. But _he_ knew it best of all. _He_ knew it all too well.

It was a particularly stuffy night. Uncomfortably humid. They were gathered at a tight corner of a narrow alley, the damp and mossy bricks forcing claustrophobia to overwhelm their senses. Six vague figures stood half-swallowed by the shadows, like vengeful ghosts that haunted the night. There was one in particular. He wasn't particularly tall, like the one to his left, or particularly muscular, like the one to his right. No. He was simply particular.

The particular one stepped into the dim light, apart from the rest. In the eerie yellow light of a dying street lamp was his trim figure, accentuated by a simple black suit that merged seamlessly with the night. Hands deep in pockets, but body held rigid and upright. Short hair, dark brown. Eyes like dark green ink, almost vaguely luminescent. His face held the expression of a slightly-annoyed young man, the kind who was always somewhat disgruntled and will always be somewhat disgruntled. He turned towards the other five men behind him with the same countenance of slight annoyance. The rest of the group had cloaked themselves in absolute darkness, awaiting his directions.

"Alright, men," he addressed them directly with the tone of cold indifference, "You know the objective. As soon as we find Di Pisa, we run the usual routine and whack'im*. No questions asked. And just a reminder for you Young Turks*…" He paused, dark jade eyes swiftly flickering to a pale face at the corner of his eye. "The omerta* is the law of God. If you so choose to violate it, then you _will_ be punished."

All stood with heads slightly bowed and hidden in the shadow. No movement. No words. The sign of absolute obedience.

And with a slight sigh, the annoyed youth whirled around and, hiding his face under a black-rimmed fedora, slipped into the darkness like a phantom. Two, three, four. Shadows that flitted before the light only a fraction of a second followed closely behind, evaporating like smoke into thin air.

So they proceeded. Soundlessly through the broken cobblestone streets. Slipping through the broken night. In a slumbering broken city. Thus was the darkest hour. Only 60 minutes. 3600 seconds.

* * *

><p>Anger. The Don's* rage was imprinted in his mind.<p>

"_I want him __**dead**__! __**Tonight!**_" The sinister, raspy voice echoed.

Romano saw it in those dangerous eyes, threatening to detonate. He had watched as murderous intent arose from within the burnt ashes of anger, like the Devil's phoenix resurrected for the sole purpose of vengeance. And from that moment, Romano knew that he would be here this very moment, sneaking through these very streets. Because when the Don was angry, the city saw blood.

Under his black-rimmed hat, Romano gritted his teeth in frustration. The pounding in his head was deafening, in sync to the rhythm of each heavy step he took. With each step, a different face. Each image so frighteningly vivid. They went in a vicious cycle, over and over again, one after the other.

Thirty-seven. He counted thirty-seven. This would be the thirty-eighth.

He didn't know how many cycles later. But somewhere between the docks and the rundown ghetto, he slowed to a stop. It was a quaint little villa that blended in well with the long row of similar houses along the street. The road separating residence and ocean sloped downward steeply on the edge, giving way to dark waves crashing upon the shore.

_Tch, looks like he had himself a posh life. _

Romano ran his hand over the icy black pistol on his hip and slowly drew it out. He raised it to his forehead with the barrel pointing upwards, steady hands and a careful finger on the trigger. He turned to two of the men behind him and cocked his head towards the door. They rushed over and, upon detailed inspection for any traces of gunpowder, simply gave the door a light push. It creaked open. Absolute black seeped out from the thin crack. No light.

"It's unlocked, _padrino*_."

A frown emerged on the _capo's*_ face as suspicion flickered in his green eyes. _How can it be unlocked? Di Pisa would be mad to be so careless, especially after… Unless…_

"_Porca vacca*_!" he swore under his breath, and swerved past the two underlings before they could react. He barged in with a violent kick to the door, pistol centered and aimed.

The moment he stepped in the house, he knew it was all over. The distinct scent of blood was strong in the silent room. Silent as death. A trail of crimson was still wet on the soft carpet, and in the black room filled with long angular shadows cast by the furniture, the trail led to a single irregular silhouette. Irregular but dead nonetheless. A limp figure lay on the white armchair, now dripping with red.

Romano relaxed, straightened himself up, and approached the lifeless body. The middle-aged man's arms dangled from the armchair, bloodied pieces of paper clutched tightly in his hands. No, not just paper. Money. The tired _capo_ let out a disappointed sigh at this pitifully grotesque scene. _The last moments of his life…spent with his most precious treasure in the world. _

He heard footsteps as the rest of the group gathered behind him, awaiting an order. An older member, around his mid-thirties, stepped up to inspect the body.

"What do you think, Moretti?" The _capo_ inquired in a bored voice.

"He hasn't been dead for long. Maybe an hour or so."

"But who could it be…" Romano mused as he played with the pistol in the hands, tossing it nonchalantly from one hand to the other. "You're positive this is off the record*, _ci_?"

"_Ci,_" came Moretti's short reply.

"Well, the Don's gonna be royally pissed," Romano grumbled to no one in particular.

Secretly, he let out a relieved sigh. His pounding headache lifted a little.

"Well, don't just stand there, _strunzo*_," he snapped at the underlings standing a little ways apart from him and Moretti. Characteristic annoyance was thick in his voice. "Get rid of it!"

Two men hurried over and carried the dead body out of the room. After a thorough search of the house, the group retreated to the outside where they stood on the street in front of the villa, leaving Romano by himself standing on the bloody carpet.

"Now to clean up," the _capo_ mumbled to himself as he drew out a small bottle that smelled strongly of gasoline.

He tossed the cap aside and circled around the room, leaving a trail of black behind him as he went. The black liquid stained the carpet darker than the crimson. Then he pulled out a small box of matches from inside his jacket. A hungry flame soon sprang to life in his hands, lighting up the room with an orange glare.

Taking one last glance at the finely-decorated house, Romano tossed the tiny flame effortlessly onto the floor and strode out of the building, hands deep in his pockets. The house burst into vicious inferno behind him, swallowing up the building as it danced faster and faster. The fire cackled like the ambition of the Devil as it dispersed the shadows shrouding the cluster of _mafiosi_. Because the light of destruction was the only light that the Cosa Nostra had to offer.

But soon they set off again, into the deep embrace of the shadows, the night, the darkness.

_Thirty-seven_, thought the annoyed young man, _still thirty-seven._

* * *

><p>He remembered all their faces clearly, as if the images were frozen in time. They haunted him every night, drove him to the point of insanity. The moment he closed his eyes, the images were there, swimming in his mind. A young man, barely out of boyhood, handsome, with frightened eyes that pleaded for a few more minutes of precious life. A beautiful woman around her thirties with flowing raven hair, an estranged comare* who had come to know too much. A balding middle-aged man. A rich man's frivolous son…thirty-seven different faces, all scarred with the same sentient of fear and horror. Scarred with death.<p>

Romano lay there for five long hours that dragged on for a century. The images, fresh in his mind, made his head spin so fast he didn't know north from south. So many times, but yet the pain would not fade.

So he simply gave in. He knew he wasn't getting any sleep tonight. He slipped out of bed and stalked over to the window. The window pane rattled loudly with the strong, chilly winds. It was going to be a dreary day with heavy, grey skies. He smelled it.

With a click, a feeble flame came to life. He lit a cigarette and breathed in the tobacco. God, how he hated that taste. Because these were his days, spent in this city with grey skies. Dull and long, no escape. The taste of tobacco, the smell of mold. Broken streets and broken buildings and broken people.

_It's December already…almost Christmas... But it'll never be Christmas on this miserable rock._ His thoughts strayed to Florence, where there was bound to be bright torch-lit processions and the pungent fragrance of fresh panettone afloat in the air. Christmas songs, children's shoes out on every doorstep*…and that idiot who was always sleeping, whining, or getting himself injured. _Fratello._ But of course he would be with that uptight bastard Germany, who, despite his own political predicament*, somehow always had time to be entangled in his brother's business. Or was it because his brother got _Germany_ entangled in his _own_ business? An angry beast gnawed at the inside of his chest.

He scrutinized at his own annoyed reflection in the dirty window pane. Dark circles under his eyes stood out against his waxy skin. _God, I look awful…_

Romano spat out the revolting cigarette onto the ground and stamped it out forcefully with his foot. The more he thought about it, the more painful his headache, and the more painful his headache the greater his irritation.

He glanced at his own reflection once again. There was a time when this reflection resembled his brother. But not anymore. Endless toil and exhaust had taken its toll. It's been too long. Way too long.

"_Affanculo*_…I'm going to Florence!"

* * *

><p>1 Whack- Mafia talk for 'to murder.' Also, hit, burn, pop, clip, or put out a contract.<p>

2 Young Turks- younger generation of the Mafia, less likely to follow the traditions

3 Omerta- The sacred code of silence which forbids Mafiosi to betray each other to the authorities.

4 Don- head of a mafia clan.

5 Padrino- an inferior's way of addressing a superior. It means father.

6 Capo- short for capodecina or caporegime. It literally translates to "head of ten" but are simply in charge of normal Mafiosi and report to the cosca (head people of the family)

7 Porca vacca- It's somewhere between the degree of dammit and shit if rated by severity but means the same thing as the other two. But literally, it translates to "pig cow." Those Italians.

8 Off the record- not authorized by the Family.

9 Strunzo- Also, strunz. Basically, piece of shit. Used to refer to useless people.

10 Comare- mistress (Any respectable Mafiosi had one)

11 These are all usual Christmas traditions of Italy. Children leave out their shoes for _La Befana_, a female witch who gives gifts for children (There's a whole story behind this). _Pannetone_ is a kind of light Christmas cake, though it's also kind of like bread at the same time.

12 At this point in history, Germany was divided into West and East (Pray for Prussia), and post-WWII Germany was under strict regulation, with little political freedom and grave economical issues.

13 Affanculo- F*ck it all.

* * *

><p><em>So...tell me what you think. Reviews? :3<em>

_Re-edit: Ok, so people have complained about the apparently confusing numbers that were actually footnote references, so I've changed them to asterisks. Sorry about that, it was me being stupid because i copy-pasted directly from word and not realizing 's not a high-tech and don't havecool automated footnote programs. xDDD _


	2. Part 2

_Ok, finally put some romantic hints-ish in. I know, i know...I'm more of a suspense kind of writer though. Hope you liiiike! And don't be lazy on the footnotes. they really help explain stuff, so i've been told..._

* * *

><p><em>Cosa Nostra: Part 2<em>

**Florence, Italy**

**December 21, 1962**

The double doors were a deep red mahogany, polished so finely that Romano could see the outline of his own reflection framed by the detailed carvings of saints and angels that lining the borders. The Italian let out a low grumble of irritation, though he had expected it beforehand. Such perfect polishing could only mean one thing: Germany.

_Of course it's that bastard. Doesn't he have somewhere else to be?_

And without a second thought, Romano lifted his fist and pounded hard on the door five times, right into his own reflection.

Footsteps. Voices. Something…pasta. Click. The door was flung open before Romano could react as someone fell forward right onto the disgruntled Italian, both of them tumbling onto the ground with a loud thud and a crack.

"_COSA DIAVOLO? VAFFANCULO! VENEZIANOOOO!_1*_"_

"AAAH! _MI DISPIACE, MI DISPIACE!*_…Oh, Madonna*, it's really you, Romano, I'M SO HAPPY I COULD SING!"

"Get OFF!"

"Germany, Germany, it's Romano he's here for Christmas I told you he'd be here is the pasta ready we should eat pasta together!"

His brother finally jumped off to announce his grand arrival to Germany, who was standing in the doorway with red oven mitts, a steaming steel pot, and an exasperated sigh.

Romano picked himself up, rubbing the fresh bruise on his shoulder. He was starting to regret taking three midnight trains and a boat just to get here. _I see nothing has changed…even after almost five years. Shouldn't've gotten my hopes up in the first place. _

He paused to study his younger twin. The lighter hair color and brown eyes aside, they were the same. But yet they weren't. One was cheerful, glowing with excitement. The other, a scowl. The same features. With different faces.

"Come on, Romano! We're making pastaaaa!"

* * *

><p>It was the same insomnia yet different at the same time. Romano lay in his old bedroom, listening to the sound of his brother's snoring emanating through the wall, and sighed. Somehow, Veneziano managed to sound uncannily merry even while he snored. It was calming.<p>

The sleepless man stared blankly at the ceiling. He was at a loss. The horrific images no longer haunted his mind. But they were replaced by something just as dreadful. No, not something. The lack of something. The hollowness in his chest was suffocating.

The past few days he spent with them were torture and bliss. They cooked like before. That old familiar feeling of kneading fresh dough. The smell of pizza as it slowly baked. Veneziano laughed the same way he always did, often and often without purpose. It was almost peaceful. Only it wasn't. Because as Romano stood there, badmouthing nothing in particular, he was happy. And he was not.

There was a detachment. This wasn't reality. Not his anyway. For him, this was the past. The long gone.

He closed his eyes, haggard but acutely alert at the same time. A face appeared before him. A cheerful face. A face he's been missing. A face he's been trying to forget. A face he couldn't forget.

_It was a mistake to come here, _he thought to himself.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Palermo, Italy, 1958<strong>_

"There's someone who I think would be interested in meeting you."

The newly-appointed Mayor of Palermo* was a dark-skinned man with short silvery-grey hair. Perhaps a little portly, his square jaw was rounded off by a thick neck.

Romano walked alongside the man as they wound through the booming town. The mayor seemed congenial enough, heartily introducing each promising aspect of the growing seaside city as they passed. Romano was only here on a short visit to meet with the mayor of this growing city. It was a hope for future economic prosperity, no matter how much he just wanted to be back at Rome with his bed sheets over his face until noon.

His mind began to wander as nonchalance settled in. Blue skies, white clouds, seagulls, the sound of the calm waves…it made everything somewhat hazy. The mayor went on about the potential of construction in the city, but Romano only half-listened. The man rattled on and on. Did he ever stop?

And suddenly, he did. Too suddenly. That was when Romano noticed that they were no longer walking through the buzzing streets filled with busy townsfolk, but a grey little alley with an uncannily ominous atmosphere. Alarm and suspicion settled in, than immediately turned to irritation.

"Hey, what's the idea?" he snapped impatiently, but regretted it as soon as he saw the mayor's smile. He was smiling very politely. Very polite, but very macabre.

"Mr. Vargas, or should I say... Romano Italiana…"

Romano took a step back, fear and surprise stirring together in dark green eyes. "How do you know who I am? What do you want?" he demanded in an attempt to sound authoritative.

"We simply want to talk, Mr. _Italiana_," a smooth , sinister voice emanated from behind.

Romano whirled around, arms up in defense. But before he could react, two men had already seized him by the shoulder, slamming him painfully into the hard, brick wall. He barely had time to comprehend what was going on before-

Darkness.

* * *

><p>Claustrophobia. That was the only word to describe it. Cramped and dark, walls of concrete cold against his burning skin. Burning with pain. Bruises and cuts covered his entire body. The blood coursed through each and every injury. Another heartbeat, another cringe.<p>

The injuries were nothing. It wasn't the first time the _mafioso_ did this to him. But it was the first time they kidnapped him and locked him in some damn cupboard with a steel door. He sat there with his hands and feet bound, blindfolded and a dirty rag strapped over his mouth and nose. Even breathing was a burden.

In the dead silence, a distinct click from the outside, then a loud clang. The door was unbolted. A stream of artificial light seeped through the cloth covering his eyes.

"You!" Suddenly, a hand seized him by the collar and roughly dragged him to his feet. He wobbled unsteadily, searching for something to lean against. Anything.

"Walk! _Strunzo…_" the gruff voice yelled, and the rough hand shoved him out into the open.

Rip. Tear. White light burned his eyes. The air tasted damp, almost like musty steel. Then, images slowly came into focus. A man. Mid-aged. Black pinstriped zoot suit. Dark brown hair. Prominent nose. Cigarette dangling from his lips. Wrists, fingers, covered with sparkling embellishments of gold and silver.

A wide smile spread across his face as Romano stumbled closer.

"Ah! Signor Italiana…" he chuckled, "I hope you're enjoying yourself in this lovely little city of ours."

"_Vaffanculo!_" Romano spat, hands in tight fists dangling at his side. But horror was creeping sneakily through his veins.

"Calm down, _miei colleghi buono!*_ Now, allow me to introduce myself…Salvatore La Barbera*. Of course, if you want to bother with titles, _capo mandamento*_ of Borgo Vecchio, Porta Nuova and Palermo Centro will do."

"You got some nerve doing this to me, La Barbera." Romano glared, unwilling to show any signs of fear. It was one thing to give up on the battlefield with enemy nations, but another in some shithole with a dirty human.

"Oh, no, no, Signor Italiana, you've got it all wrong," the _mafiosi_ laughed, his malignant grin spreading ever wider, "I've got no nerve. In fact, I'm quite a coward. But I've got a guarantee. Your guarantee."

"_Stronzata!* _Whatever it is I won't do it!_"_

"Oh, but, you wouldn't say no to your own _fratello_ would you?"

"What? What're you bullshitting about?" Immediately, all his defenses gave away to panic.

"You should know by now, Signor Italiana, that this thing of ours9extends far beyond just this little island," the _mafiosi_ said in a low, musical voice, the ominous grin still on his face. He paused to enjoy the terror growing in his captive's eyes.

"In fact, we find it quite an easy job to keep tabs on dear Veneziano. Or so I hear from my friends up North," he continued, pretending to examine the sparkling platinum ring on his finger.

"I…I don't believe you!" Romano shouted, his voice wavering with his confidence.

"I knew you wouldn't, Signor Italiana. That's why I've prepared a little something to convince you."

He reached for the wooden desk beside him and, to Romano's absolute horror, produced a necklace with a black pendant dangling dangerously from its end. A black cross.

"But…It can't be…" Romano mumbled under his breath, teeth clenched tightly as his two hands automatically seized his sides. _But I'm sure it's the one…the one that potato bastard gave to Veneziano…the one my stupid brother never takes off…_

"But it is, isn't it, _miei colleghi buono_," La Babera hissed slyly.

"What the fuck did you do to him? Tell me, NOW!"

"Oh, nothing. Not yet, at least. But it all depends on your decision, my dear Signor Italiana. I think you should give this some careful consideration. After all, I know how important this is to you. I have a brother myself, you see." A sinister cackle.

"Spit it out, _bastardo!_*_" _

"Well, the Cosa Nostra could do with someone on the inside. We're expanding, you see," he said with a casual wave of his hand.

_Expanding…_ Romano's thoughts flashed to the new Mayor Lima. _Of course! They're infiltrating the government. It'd make trade monopoly that much easier…_

Clink. The black cross fell to the floor at Romano's foot.

La Barbera's face was suddenly dark and merciless. No more smiles. "Decide, _Signor Italiana,_" he sneered.

Romano stared at the little black cross lying so dismally on the grey floor. Tears of frustration stung his eyes. _Dammit, I don't know what to do…I never know what to do. I'm such a strunz. Useless. _He cursed himself silently in his head.

_Before, he would always be there. He'd always smile and try to cheer me up like the pathetic fool he is. He'd know what to do…_

"My patience is limited, you know," the Mafia boss said with a bored yawn.

Romano said nothing. Just stood there, head bowed.

_ What should I do? What _can_ I do…I'd kill to see his stupid smile. Maybe if I wait long enough, he'll barge in and save me like before…_

"Decide. Now." The tone of finality.

"I…I…I'll do whatever you say."

_Affanculo! Spain! Where the fuck are you?_

* * *

><p><strong>Florence, Italy<strong>

**December 24, 1962**

"Wake up, _fratello!_ You don't want to spend Christmas Eve sleeping, do you?"

Romano snapped awake to his brother's high-pitched exuberance. _And so early in the morning too…_

"C'mon! It's already time for lunch! The pasta will get cold!"

_Or not…_

Romano dragged himself to his feet with a grunt and rubbed his eyes sleepily. He didn't know when he fell asleep. He just knew that right now, every bone in his body felt as heavy as rocks.

"Oh! That's right, that's right, we have a visitor! ~Veeee..."

He lifted his head to look at his brother. The latter could barely contain his excitement and was bouncing on his feet even as he stood there.

"Who…"

"_Feliz Navidad_*_, _Romano!" Animated, lighthearted, enthusiastic, almost sing-song. _**Sunny. **__Now I'm just hearing things…_

But there he was, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, with a big sunny grin on his face, same untidy brown hair and bright green eyes. The same sunburned face Romano could not forget no matter how hard he tried, even after all those black nights accompanied by the Devil.

The disgruntled Italian rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, as if hoping and dreading to erase the Spaniard's image in front of him. But he couldn't. And so he did what he always does in similar situations. He became extremely annoyed.

"Merry Christmas my _ass_, you _bastardo_!" Romano lunged. His only missed Spain's face by an inch. His fist slammed into the wall right next to the victim's alarmed face. "Five years! And not a single word!"

"R-Romanooo!" Veneziano was tearing up in a frenzy behind them.

Spain mustered an awkward, panicked smile. His words tumbled out like a waterfall. "W-wait, Romano! I did try to…but I…I called, I swear! Every week! But you never pick up! I tried calling your office, too! And I even wrote you, even though letters are quite slow between the two peninsulas* and I apologize for that but international mail has low efficiency but conditions are improving and I'm sure our postal services will be up to speed again soon enou-"

"Every week?" Romano stopped short. Every week. It must have cost a fortune*.

Romano took a step back, still eying his former guardian with a suspicious gaze. He looked sincere alright, and Spain usually felt how he looked. He knew that all too well.

"But how come I never received any calls _or_ letters?" the Italian inquired quizzically.

"You…didn't?" He blinked. Blank stare.

"No…not a single word." Romano averted his eyes. He just couldn't stand that earnest look in Spain's eyes without feeling ashamed of himself.

"Oh, ¡Gracias a Dios!* You _didn't_!" Spain suddenly exclaimed and bounded over to suffocate Romano with an overjoyed hug. "I was beginning to think you were giving Boss the cold shoulder!"

Romano choked under his tight grip, and struggled to slip out of the deadly grasp. Spain seemed not to notice. After a long thirty seconds of suffocation, he finally let go, wearing a wide grin. Meanwhile, Veneziano was happily hurrahing as he bounded through the door calling for Germany excitedly. And for once, Romano was too distracted to be bothered by his brother's clinginess to the German.

"So why are you here anyway? It's Christmas Eve, shouldn't you be…dancing the _Jota_15 with your people or something?" Romano grumbled, still averting his eyes.

"Oh, Romano, you're always so cruel to me!" Spain cried overemotionally, "I rushed over the moment little Veneziano called to tell me you're here!" Then he regained his sunny disposition. "Besides, I can dance the _Jota_ anywhere!"

Romano rolled his eyes and sighed. Nope. No change. Zip.

"But come to think of it, it _is_ quite strange that you never got any of those calls, _si_?" Spain pondered as the two of them ambled slowly towards the door.

"Hn." Romano only grunted in reply. He reached for the doorknob.

_But it's not strange at all, considering the Cosa Nostra regulate all my active phone lines. I wouldn't be surprised if they blocked all outside calls except for ones from work and occasional calls from Veneziano. And even those are only for cover. No, La Barbera doesn't trust me at all… _

"Don't think too hard. Knowing you, you'll probably get a migraine or something…" Romano muttered under his breath.

The door slammed behind them with a soft click as their voices were lost in the thumping on wooden stairs.

* * *

><p><strong>Palermo, Italy<strong>

**December 24, 1962**

**7:00 PM**

Christmas Eve in Palermo. The streets were just as deserted and barren as any other night in the past four years. Just as broken.

In the center of town, below an obscure and crumbling office building, sat nine men under the artificial white light which flickered in sickly trembles every few minutes. The walls were the bland grey of concrete, thin cracks snaking through its battered structure. There was very little furniture. Only a black armchair next to a desk pushed against the wall with a decrepit old lamp sitting on top of it, the lone spectator. A wooden door was across from the desk on the other side of the room, and another door, steel and bolted, sat ominously in the far right corner. Nine men, all in black suits and ties, sat in a circle on creaking old chairs in the center of the room. Some leaned forward, some leaned back. Some twiddled his fingers, some sat with hands interlaced lying on his lap. But all nine had two things in common: money and ambition.

One man with a square jaw and specks of grey on his black head, stood up. He spoke in a taut monotone. "All members of the _Cupola*_ in Palermo are gathered. We are here to discuss the issue of the murder of Calcedonio di Pisa." He sat back down stiffly, dark stony eyes fixed on the one sitting directly across from him. Salvatore La Barbera, reclining on his chair with a lax expression, arms crossed and the same thick brown cigar dangling from his lips.

"Alright, alright, Ciaschiteddu*," La Barbera exclaimed with a bored sigh. "You're the one who called us here. So cut to the chase."

A long pause. A_gita*_ was tangible within the little circle of men. All eyes were on La Barbera and Greco, who were both currently fixing the other with an icy stare.

Finally, Greco opened his mouth to speak. "Fine, La Barbera. To be frank with you, I have no doubt in mind _who_," –his coal black eyes narrowed into slits- "initiated the murder."

La Barbera leaned forward in his chair and propped his head up with his forearm, eyes glinting in a dangerous scowl. "Oh, really? Enlighten me then."

"Gladly," Greco answered through gritted teeth, then grew slightly nervous. There was not a single sound besides his own voice. The other six men were waiting, honing in on the tangible web of tension, so fragile yet so unbearable. Don Greco cleared his throat and began.

"It's no secret that the last large-scale babania* shipment to the US resulted in…some conflicts. Those damn _Americano_ claimed the shipment was light and accused _us_ of foul play. As you all know, the shipment was organized by Manzella in partnership with La Barbera's and my Families. However, Manzella gave all his authority to Di Pisa. When the Americans gave Di Pisa a lower payment than the original amount agreed upon, Di Pisa accused the Americans of fraud. Meanwhile, _you_, Signor La Barbera_,_ in turn accused Di Pisa of fraud. However, as we all know from the results of the last meeting, the rest of the Commissione supported Di Pisa. And despite your sly words, La Barbera, you were enraged. Which makes _you_," –his eyes were daggers pointed straight at the glowering La Barbera- "the prime suspect."

A deadly silence fell upon the _Cupola_. The rest of the Commissione awaited La Barbera's reaction while exchanging anxious glances. But he did not seem fazed. Just the opposite.

He faced his opponent, a wicked grin twisting the corners of his mouth. "That is all very well, my dear Ciaschiteddu, but where is your evidence?"

Another long pause. Greco tried to conceal his uneasiness with a bluff. "You have viable motive."

"Yes, but so do _most_ of the men sitting here." Sly dark eyes scrutinized each face in the room, and slid back to land on Greco. "Yourself included."

"It's evidence enough for me," Greco seethed, his hands tightly gripping the splintered wooden armrests.

"Well, then." La Barbera's voice suddenly dropped to a pernicious rasp. "If that's the case, I guess there's not much else to say, is there?"

Greco's mouth formulated a retort, but no sound came out. The opposing man's calculating yet menacing gaze sent a frosty chill through his spine.

La Barbera stood up and gestured towards the door behind him. "Now, _signori_. I trust we have wasted enough time this evening."

All eight men promptly took their leave. Greco was the first out the door.

* * *

><p><strong>Palermo, Italy<strong>

**December 24, 1962**

**11:00 PM**

The room under the office building was empty, save a single man reclining in the black corduroy armchair next to the decrepit lamp and desk, puffing thick cigar smoke out from his mouth. He drew in one last deep breath then tossed the cigar into a wastebasket in the corner of the room with perfect precision. A slight frown was visible on his forehead. A sigh, barely audible, escaped his lips. He sat and pondered.

Then, he was done pondering.

"Moretti!" Salvatore La Barbera's agitation was apparent. In such instances, no one dared keep him waiting.

Moretti hastened into the room. "Yes, _padrino_."

The Don stopped and examined the man before him. Moretti was a thin man around thirty-five, tall and gaunt with prominent cheekbones and a nose so straight as if carved from marble. His gaze was steady, unrevealing. "Tell me, Moretti. Have you been to Florence during Christmastime?"

"No, _padrino_. I haven't had the pleasure."

"Well, you're in luck. I believe our dear _Signor_ Vargas has had quite a lovely time there. Unfortunately, his extended vacation must be…brought to an end."

"Understood, _padrino_. I shall depart immediately." Moretti began towards the door.

"Oh, and one more thing, Moretti."

"Yes, _padrino_?"

"Fetch me another cigar."

"Yes, _padrino_."

The Don watched Moretti's retreating figure with uncharacteristically solemnity. Salvatore Greco's words resounded through his head. _"It's evidence enough for me."_ La Barbera gave a humorless laugh. _You asked for it, Greco. This means war._

* * *

><p>1 Cosa diavolo? Vaffanculo! Venezianoo!- What the hell? F*ck you! Veneziano!<p>

2 Mi dispiace- I'm sorry (self-explanatory)

3 Madonna- Italians actually say Madonna more often than Mamma mia, contrary to popular belief.

4 Salvatore Lima- (January 23, 1928- March 12, 1992) He was the mayor of Palermo (a seaside then-boomtown located on the coast of Sicily) from 1958 to 1963.

5 Miei colleghi buono- My good fellow

6 Salvatore La Barbera- powerful Mafia boss who ruled the Mafia family Palermo Centro with his brother Angelo La Barbera.

7 Capo mandamento- In the Cosa Nostra, a mandamento is a district usually consisting of three families. The capo mandamento is the head of the mandamento and has a seat in the Mafia Commission.

8 Stronzata- bullshit

9 This thing of ours- mafia speak for either one family of the mafia, or, as in this case, the entire Cosa Nostra.

10 Bastardo- Yes, in Italian, bastard is actually just bastardo.

11 Feliz Navidad- I'm sure this is common knowledge, but just in case, it's "merry Christmas" in Spanish.

12 The two peninsulas- Spain is on the Iberian Peninsula and Italy is a peninsula itself.

13 It must have cost a fortune- remember, this is the 1960's. People didn't have convenient cell phones and elaborate cheap land phone plans. "Long distance" phone calls were quit expensive.

14 Glacias a Dios- thank goodness.

15 Jota- a traditional Christmas dance in Spain that's been passed down for who knows how long. People get together and dance the Jota on Christmas Eve.

16 The Sicilian Mafia Commission- known as the _Cupola _or the _Commissione_, it is a loose body of representatives (usually the Dons) of powerful mandamentos (Families) in Sicily. Nine of thirteen men in the "first" commission were situated in Palermo. They are _not_ a "government" or any centralized form of bureaucracy within the Cosa Nostra, but is rather formed to punish severe violations of Cosa Nostra codes or to mediate conflicts between families. It helps maintain a balance of power within the Sicilian Mafia.

17 Salvatore "Ciaschiteddu" Greco (January 13, 1923 – March 7, 1978)- Head of the Greco Family clan, a powerful and longstanding family in the Cosa Nostra. Salvatore Greco mainly ruled in Ciacullo, a suburb of Palermo, and was first secretary of the Mafia Commission. His nickname Ciaschiteddu means "wine jug"(?).

18 Agita- Mafia slang for edginess or agitation. Personally, I'm surprise they have a slang for that….

19 Babania- Mafia slang for heroin, especially in the act of dealing.

* * *

><p><em>Even more footnotes...O.o I go crazy with those, but it's necessary for the full understanding of the thing, especially with Italian terms and Mafia slang and whatnot. Once again, excuse my nonexistent Italian skills. ^^' Reviews? I wanna hear opinions...<em>

_Re-edit: Ok, also fixed the numbers-asterisks thing on this and an embarrassing grammar mistake. Me=epic fail. Sorry for the lack of Spamano romance, but do know that this IS a mafia-centered fic and it IS kind of heavy and dark...but i'll get there, in one way or another... }:) oh and did you know that if you reverse that, you get this mustache-pringles-man face? :{_


	3. Part 3

****_Yo, guyz. The good news is I have gotten off my butt and updated! The bad news is, I shall be vacationing for the next few days and school starts pretty much after that (dammiiiit) so I prolly won't be updating this quickly. But I promise i **will** update, because Im really quite surprise i actually kind of like this story i'm writing. Also, since i've heard that it's been not much Spamano in the first two parts, guess what? Happy New Years! x333 Sorry if it's not fluff enough. I'm not an experienced romance writer. Also, as you can tell, I'm not planning to drag this story on for too long. Maybe just one more part after this one to wrap it up. Or two short parts separately, whichever cuts off better. Anewayz, enjoiiiii~_

* * *

><p><em>Cosa Nostra: <em>Part 3

**Florence, Italy**

**December 25, 1962**

He woke up to white. A thin layer of white, subtle and elegant. The ancient city dressed in an exquisite robe of silk.

He sat up in bed and rubbed away the cold mist that had formed on the windowpane with warm fingertips. As Romano gazed upon this city, so old and peaceful, he almost began to doubt. How could there possibly be a single grain of threat to his brother in this calm city, humbled by its age and only a mere reflection of its glorious past.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Gentle knocks at his door. Romano turned his head towards the door. It was still early in the morning, the sun barely up over the horizon. It wasn't Veneziano, who was probably in a comatose state of sleep at this hour, and it surely wasn't the potato bastard. Could it mean that it was…

"Romano, it's me."

_Of course it's you, you jerk. _

He went over to open the door with sluggish steps, feet trailing on the soft carpet. Romano turned the handle and held the door open just wide enough so Spain could slip in sideways. For some unspoken reason, both men were unnecessarily attentive. Almost secretive.

But what Romano didn't expect were the boxes Spain carried in his arms, all gift-wrapped in Christmas red and pine green. The Spaniard set them down on the bed as Romano counted the little pile. Four boxes.

His former guardian turned to him with a slightly awkward but (nonetheless) big smile on his face. "_Feliz Navidad, _Romano. I wanted your first gifts of Christmas to be mine."

Romano blinked. And stared blankly at the neatly-wrapped boxes on his bed, then looked back at Spain again. _Coglione_*_. When you do stuff like this…how am I supposed to live with myself?_ It was all he could do to suppress the dull ache drumming on the inside of his head.

"Th-Thanks…"

To his surprise, Spain laughed lightheartedly as if expecting his reaction, and plopped down on the bed with a patient smile. "Come on, open them."

"Oh…kay." Romano sat down tentatively on the other side of the pile and laid a hand on the topmost box. It was red and sprinkled with little snowflakes. He took it in his lap and began to gingerly pry off the wrapping paper bit by bit, carefully keeping the noise to a minimum.

"There's one for every year," Spain explained as he continued with the methodical work of unwrapping, "I would always get a present for you, but you never showed up. And there's this year's too…"

Romano had finally successfully separated the wrapping paper from the box. It was a long, rectangular, box. In golden, dramatic, curly font was "Romanee-Conti*." Romano blinked, a little confused. That's odd…_Why would he give me expensive French wine? He knows very well I'm not a fan of overpriced French wines. Weird…_

"I got this in an auction," Spain began as if he read Romano's mind, "But I've really no taste in wine, so I think it would be less of a waste if it went to you."

A surge of irritation. Romano's face muscle twitched slightly. _There's something he's not telling me…_

With no word of thanks, the Italian reached for the next box and ripped it open with no trace of the former mind he paid. Whatever his former guardian was hiding from him, he was going to pry it out from his lips, by force if necessary.

The second gift was just as unusually trite, if not as extravagant. Neuhaus's* Belgian chocolate. Of course Romano liked Belgium's chocolate (who wouldn't?), but for some reason, he simply felt cheated that Spain was giving him something so mundane for the _first Christmas_ they've spent together for _decades_.

If the chocolates were infuriating, then the third gift almost made Romano jump off the bed and shout various profanities in various languages at the calm, smiling man next to him.

A sapphire. Glittering brilliantly in the rays of the new Christmas sun, so gaudy, so dramatic, so _large_. It was nestled perfectly between the felt sheets in the velvet box. A beautiful traitor.

"What…" Romano seethed, "Am I…supposed to _do _with _this?_" He turned on Spain, a murderous flare in his green eyes.

The Spaniard mustered an awkward chuckle. "L-listen, Romano, I know it's a weird thing to get you, but I was just thinking that…you know…if there was ever a girl that you fancied or something…And I just happened to have this handy and everything…"

And that was it. All the rage boiled over with those innocently-spoken words.

" YOU _HAPPENED_ TO HAVE THIS HANDY? WHO IN THEIR RIGHT MIND HAS A BIGASS STONE WORTH ABOUT A MILLION BUCKS _HANDY_?" For some obscure reason, Spain's comment inflamed Romano like that one small deadly spark in a small, enclosed room filled with carbon monoxide.

"Romano! Romano, c-calm down! You'll wake them up!"

At the thought of his idiot brother and that potato bastard barging in the room to find Spain showering him with chocolates and women's jewelry forced Romano to slowly sit back down on the bed, a hostile glare still fixed pointedly at the Spaniard.

Spain forced another awkward laugh, quickly handing him the last box.

This was different. Heavier. Somehow, solemnity lingered about the silver Christmas wrapping. It was neither big nor small, fitting perfectly in Romano's lap. The Italian fingered the present curiously, piqued by its unexplainable aura. He stole a glance at Spain, who was still smiling at him encouragingly but intently. A slight frown contracted on Romano's forehead as he shifted a little uncomfortable on the bed, then began to fumble with the packaging. _Why is he looking at me like that?_

Inside the box was…another box. An ancient wooden box. Exquisite carvings of lofty angels and dignified saints lined the border, guarding the deeply engraved words of ancient Roman calligraphy:

"_BIBLIA SACRA_

VVULGATAE EDITIONIS

TRIBVS TOMIS

DISTINCTA*"

Romano's breath caught in his throat like the words frozen on the tip of his tongue. With trembling hands, he slid open the smooth wooden lid, so delicate but well-preserved, to reveal a leather-bound book with worn corners and yellowed pages. The same words were engraved in golden print. His hands stroked the antique binding familiarly. Then -

"No." He firmly shoved the book back at Spain. "No, I can't take this."

" Awwwn, Romano, don't be cruel," Spain whined.

"No! I'm not fooling around. I can't take this!" The Italian turned his head away. He wouldn't, _couldn't_, let Spain see the desperately pained expression emerging on his face.

But Spain's expression grew unprecedentedly stern. "Neither am I, Romano. I want you to have this." Never in the past five centuries had he ever seen the easygoing man so serious, not even during times of war. Then he was suddenly lighthearted again. "After you left, I really had no use for it. It just lay on top of my shelf gathering dust for three hundred years. It's really a waste, so I thought you should have it."

Romano squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, trying hard to clear his mind. "You're not making sense, _idiota_, none of this is making sense."

He watched the cheery man from the corner of his eye. Then, a flicker of anxiety on Spain's face. He blinked. And it was gone. Suspicion began to brew. He eyed Spain more cautiously than before.

"W-what do you mean, Romano?" The grin plastered on his face was forced.

The Italian carefully slid the wooden cover back on and twisted around to place the antique Scripture on his bedside table. With his back to the nervous Spain, a sly smile settled on his lips. Romano flexed his wrists. _I've learned lots of tricks over these past four years, coglione. Don't try to deceive me. _

He lunged, quicker than the eye could perceive. A flash. A split second. Spain was pinned down flat on the bed, wrists struggling futilely under Romano's vice-like grip. Angry green eyes glared down at the helpless victim.

Spain gave a nervous chuckle, secretly shocked by the lightning speed of the attack. "R-Romano…what're you…"

"Look, _idiota_. You've always been a horrible liar. First of all, you _do_ have taste in wine, you're the third biggest wine-producer in the world. Secondly, why would you spend so much money at a wine auction for French wine? I _know_ your taste in wine, _coglione, _and thank goodness it's not French! Also, your economy's been in a slump for the past two decades! You expect me to believe you just happened to _have_ the kind of money to buy a bunch of high-class luxury goods? And lastly, you know very well that there IS NO GIRL I FANCY BECAUSE-"

The words tumbling out of his mouth suddenly halted to a stop. Romano knew that with that last unfinished sentence, he had just wound himself up in deep shit. There were a million things he wanted to say, but somehow he had blurted out the one thing he had never intended for anyone to hear.

"Because?" Spain was extraordinarily tranquil, a small smile still lingering on the corners of his mouth. But there was something else in his liquid green eyes. A flicker of pain?

Romano paused, gritting his teeth to compensate for all the heated words he vied to shout. But his rage soon simmered down into a jumbled muddle of disconnected thoughts.

He searched exasperatedly for a hint of anger, irritation, disappointment, anything, in Spain's liquid green eyes. Nothing. Just benevolence. It was torture, facing all the kindheartedness bestowed upon him but knowing he didn't deserve a single drop of it. What right did he, the coldblooded murderer, have to demand anything?

Romano's grip on his victim's wrists slowly loosened, but Spain did not push him away. Instead, he became uncharacteristically sensitive. He extended a careful hand to gently touch Romano's cheek with the mysterious appearance of rue. Romano only grew more confused at this gesture, but somehow the Spaniard's soft, warm touch bridged the gap.

"It's okay," the Spaniard whispered.

And for a moment, it was okay. The last five years suddenly made no difference at all. Romano was of Florence and of Rome. He was of the days when the sun would be high in the sky when he woke up. He would quarrel with his brother and try to make a fool of Germany. He would spend his days harvesting tomatoes with Spain. He would call Spain multiple names. Then, at the end of the day, he would laugh.

Spain. The familiar image of that dauntless smile. And that was when he realized they were literally nose to nose.

Romano's breath caught in his throat at the closeness of Spain's smiling green eyes. No, not just green. Many different shades. Emerald and jade, turquoise and lapis lazuli, all at the same time. Romano heard his own deafening heartbeat that resounded like a tolling bell inside his chest, reverberating from his core. But the most curious part was that, for the first time in a very long while, he was not annoyed.

But the moment was over much too soon.

Thud. Romano whipped his head around, alarmed by the sudden movement. The dainty velvet box containing the sapphire had fallen to the floor.

Something snapped in Romano's mind, and he immediately sprang off, backing away with a look of distrust on his face. Distrust of himself.

Spain sat up slowly, rubbing his wrist. The expression of subdued sorrow, though still lingering, was fading fast.

A long pause that felt like a century.

"I'm…sorry," Romano said, a slightly reproachful frown on his face, "I overreacted."

"Haha! That's probably the second time you've ever apologized to me. Boss is happy!" Spain laughed merrily as he picked up the velvet box on the floor and set it on the bedside table. Then he bounded over and steered Romano towards the door. "It's Christmaaaass~! _Feliz Navidad, Feliz Navidad…_" he sang.

_God, he bounces back like a three-year-old_.

Romano sighed, but the frown on his forehead would not leave.

_But what was that look that he gave me? What was __**any**__ of that? Ugh…there's something very wrong here. And this cheerful bastardo is just making it worse…Madonna…my head hurts._

* * *

><p>It was night. A different kind of night. Sparkling lights hung from every building, every narrow, bustling street, like stars that descended from the heavens. The mightiest spruces, firs, and pines were carefully hand-picked according to detailed specifications of proportion. They were from all over Europe, brought from as far north as Norway and as far south as Turkey. The shimmering decorations intertwined the trees with exquisite grace. The people rushed back and forth in the markets and piazzas. The children ran to and fro the winding boulevards between magnificent, ancient cathedrals and palaces. The city was laced together with red bows and laughter.<p>

The four nations made an odd group as they stood amidst the crowd in the _Piazza del Duomo*_. Veneziano was skipping around the entire piazza, running and playing with random children. Germany kept yelling that he was going to slip and fall with his usual uptight seriousness. Spain was at one of the flea market stalls, bargaining with a stubborn old man for mini Christmas decorations.

Romano simply stood in the middle of the plaza, breathing in the crisp winter air teeming with life. He felt the ancient tiles beneath his feet and inhaled the pleasing fragrance of _i dolci*_ floating out from a houses nearby. A rare smile lit up his face.

Suddenly, someone flew up from behind and tackle him with a tight hug.

"What the?" But the rest of his sentence was lost in laughter. His own laughter. It's been far too long since he'd heard that wonderful sound. It gave everything around him a fuzzy kind of glow.

"_Buon Natale_*_, fratello!_" The younger Italy shouted.

"_Buon Natale, fratello_," Romano echoed. _When did I last say that to him? How long have I waited to say it again?_

Veneziano let go of him with an even larger grin on his face. "Veee…"

They ran around and chased pigeons for a while. For one fleeting moment, Romano thought they were children again, upturning stalls on the streets of Venice as they chased each other around. _I guess some things never do change, do they? _But he soon found that he was oh, so wrong.

"_Fratello_, why were you gone for so long?"

Romano froze. How was he supposed to answer that? "Erm…"

He caught a glimpse of Germany listening to the conversation a small distance away with a quizzical look on his face. _Damn that potato bastard. Now I can't just make up a lie. It has to actually make sense. Why can't he just mind his own business? And why's he looking at me like that? _

" I was…"

Suddenly, a spot about ten meters away caught Romano's attention. On the bottom corner of the _Companile_8, just at the height of his eyes, was a small mark carved into the ancient marble. The mark was small and insignificant, but it was new. And familiar. Romano's eyes quickly traced the white, green, and pink gothic patterns of the slender pillar-shaped bell tower to its top floor. From the narrow, high-arched windows, a flicker, but only a split second, as if a reflection of light. Green eyes narrowed in fury, teeth gritted in pure loathing, hands clenched into cold fists.

_Why here? Why now? Cazzo_*_… _

"Romano?" Veneziano was puzzled but genuinely concern.

Romano bit his lip. Then he seized his younger brother's shoulders to look him straight in his chocolate brown eyes. Veneziano seemed to understand that his _fratello_ was serious, though this unsettled him even further.

"Listen to me, Veneziano. Go home. Right now. And don't leave the house until tomorrow morning, got it?"

"Wha? But _fratello_! I don't understand!" he whined, tears threatening to waterfall down his cheeks.

"Go. _Now_."

"But-"

Romano looked up at Germany, who was standing right behind Veneziano at the sudden turn of events. "Take him home. And _don't_ leave the house until -"

"Romano, what's going on?" It was Spain.

_Merda!_*_Don't make this harder, idiota. _Tears stung Romano's eyes. It took all he had to hold them back. Because it was Spain, the smiling face he couldn't forget.

" All of you, go home. Now. And don't…don't leave the house. Don't leave the house until…until…I'm gone."

"Romano! You mustn't leave yet! Boss just got to spend some time with you!"

"_Fratello, but it's Christmas!_"

"_Si_! Tell me what's wrong!"

Germany stayed silent behind Veneziano, who was tearing up. The German's expression was even more solemn than usual. Romano hated that it had to come to this, but he gazed up into Germany's steely blue eyes and knew he had no choice but to trust him. "Germany, make sure they get home."

A curt nod passed between the two of them, and Romano sped off towards the Campanile without another glance backwards. But he could hear them calling after him. The two most important people in his life. And every step he took toward the bell tower, he was letting them slip a little farther away.

* * *

><p>The loud pitter-patter of his own quick footsteps as he sprinted up the old, stone stairs bounced around the tight, square walls of the perfectly geometric spire.<p>

_Veneziano, stop crying, _he thought. _And Spain. Spain, you stupid wonderful idiota. Please don't come after me. _

The echoes of footsteps finally ceased. He had emerged onto the top floor. A man in a black suit facing away from Romano was waiting, hands in his pockets. But Romano recognized him right away.

"Moretti."

Moretti turned around and gave Romano a small nod in courtesy. "_Buon Natale, padrino_," he said in a monotone. His expression was blank and unreadable as usual.

"_Buon Natale_ my ass," Romano spat.

Moretti was unfazed. "The Don requests your aid. We will return to Palermo tonight."

_I knew this was coming. I knew it. And yet…_Romano trembled with fury and anguish. He said nothing in silent refusal

Upon his denial, Moretti drew out a palm-size metal clicker with a small red button on its tip. "_Padrino_, I apologize, but you must come with me," he said politely.

Romano's eyes widened in horror at the sight of the clicker. "Where is it?"

"I am afraid beneath the foundations of your brother's home, _padrino. _I suggest you think this over carefully."

Then, the pieces began to come together in Romano's mind. _Of course. Not only do La Barbera have a whole squad operating in Florence just to ensure my loyalty, he also secured his "investment" with a backup. Exactly five years ago, Veneziano moved to this house just to be closer to the Duomo, his favorite place in the entire city. Come to think of it, Veneziano didn't just _buy_ the house. He _commissioned_ it. It was specially designed…and _construction _is what they're good at, and it's how they got to him!*_ _Of course La Barbera knew that I would tell him to stay at home in case of any danger…Cazzo, this is all my fault!_

Romano took a deep breath through his gritted teeth. His jaws were beginning to ache. But defeat was already written all over his face. "Fine. Fine, I'll come with you. Just…just don't hurt them. "

Moretti nodded and tucked the dangerous clicker away in the inner breast pocket of his suit. A slight pause, then he said, "Thank you, _padrino_. I shall meet you at the train station tonight at 1:30. We must depart immediately. The situation is dire. I hope you understand."

Romano's eyes narrowed at these curiously beseeching words. He had worked with Moretti ever since he became _capodecina_, but despite this, Moretti's personality still remained somewhat of a mystery. He was always rather expressionless but good-naturedly polite. He said little, but when he did, it was simple and straight to the point. But there was something more in his words just now.

Romano shook his head, ridding himself of these details. It no longer mattered. He was idiotic to trust any member of the _mafiosi_ even the slightest bit. He just stood there glaring at the unrevealing man.

"I will see you tonight, _padrino_," the silent man with a quick nod, then proceeded towards the stairs.

But Romano stopped him. "It was you all along, wasn't it? The one who keeps tabs on me for La Barbera," he seethed.

Moretti faced him again, politely apologetic. "I am sorry, _padrino_. It was the Don's orders."

Romano could only watch in helpless rage as Moretti descended down the stairs the stairs and soon, all that was left was the distant echo of footsteps rebounding against the tower walls.

He waited until the echoing had faded to bare whispers. Then, with a deep, dejected sigh, Romano began his own slow descent down the steep stone staircase. Once again, he was alone, a solitary man on Christmas night. Or so he thought.

He had only just landed on the next lower floor. A silent figure, tall and well-built, with neatly-combed light blonde hair and severe blue eyes was waiting for him. Germany. Romano froze.

_ Why does have to be him? I hate this bastard!_

"I thought I told you to take them home." But he knew perfectly well that in the time he spent climbing the _Campanile_ and talking to Moretti, Germany had ample time to make a round trip, though how he had the strength and speed to climb the tower in this short amount of time was unfathomable to the Italian.

Germany sighed and rubbed his temple haggardly. "I hope you know what you're doing," he said.

Green eyes narrowed. _How did he know? How __**much**__ does he know?_ But Romano had to leave these questions unanswered. Instead, he answered in a bitter voice, "I do this for my brother. You wouldn't understand," then hastened towards the next flight of stairs.

"You're wrong," came Germany's deep voice from behind.

Romano stopped in his tracks but did not turn around.

"I have a brother, too. He's suffering behind Soviet walls this very moment. So don't tell me I don't understand." The German's voice was steady and controlled, but his words bordered on threatening.

Romano was at a loss for words. He trembled with frustration. _So what? What could you do? Why haven't you told them yet?_ A pang struck him as he imagined the look of revolt on Spain's face.

He shook his head and walked on, swiftly disappearing on the staircase. He didn't look back.

* * *

><p><strong>Palermo, Italy<strong>

**January 10, 1963**

Gunfire tore open the night. Ripped it into pieces like a ravenous beast. The shots rang out, lethal flashes in the disturbed night. The city shuddered and trembled with each new drop of blood. It shivered in terror.

"Hurry up!"

"But the money, _padrino!_"

"Forget the money, c_'mon!"_

Romano seized the boy's arm and sprinted for the door at lightning speed. A slight draft of fresh air hit his face. He dove.

Explosion. An ear-splitting blast. Romano and the boy landed hard on the sharp gravel. The force of impact sent them skidding off on the ground. Trained senses kicked in and overwhelmed the shock. Romano climbed to his feet, dragged the boy up, and hurriedly ducked behind some steel crates to take cover as the building continued to combust. The vengeful flames took hold of the entire structure and devoured it whole. The deafening bursts from the explosion were accompanied by the barrage of bullets being exchanged.

The _capo_ could feel the boy trembling next to him in the semi-darkness. Under the light of gunpowder and gunshots, the youth's face was pale as a sheet, save the deep cuts that were bleeding crimson. He was only nineteen and had a young face despite his tall, muscular build.

_A bit of a klutz, this one. Too hesitant. Too naïve. He's not cut out to be a Mafioso. But I guess for him, it's the family trade. Both his grandfathers, his father, uncle, and brothers…But look at him! And it's only his first brush with death. _

Romano watched the frightened expression mutate in the youth's face with a worn frown. Worn from overuse. He had arrived back in Palermo a few weeks ago to find the _cosche* _tearing at each other's throats. The tension that had built up between each of the families was unfolding into a disastrous, bloody competition of bombings, midnight shootings, and assassinations. All tried to thwart the others' dealings. And stuck in the middle of it all were the La Barbera brothers, who were being forced into a corner by the Grecos.

Romano's body ached each day with the people who died, _mafiosi_ and civilian. Yet he had to bear with partaking in the destruction every single night. In the five years that he had endured this endless torture, it had never been so unbearable.

A shadow suddenly flitted across the heavy onslaught of gunfire and dropped down beside the two crouching figures. Under the orange light, Romano made out the carved profile of Moretti, covered in sweat, blood, and dust. His breathing was a little heavy, but in his arms was a long black Tommy*. He handed the gun to Romano wordlessly and drew out a magnum* from under his torn suit jacket.

Romano was slightly taken aback. Here was the man who reported every one of his movements to the Don, and yet this very man was voluntarily surrendering about half his chance of survival to his target. Moretti recognized the apprehension on Romano's face, and his expression softened. "You're better with that gun than I," he said.

The _capo_ heaved a sigh, telling himself not to think too much. He seemed to be telling that to himself way too often these days. Then, he gave the youth a gentle shove. "Moretti, take him somewhere else. He's seen enough of this shit for one night. I'll open a path." Moretti said nothing, only nodded, and put a guiding hand on the youth's shoulder as they positioned themselves to make a run for it.

Seeing that they were ready, Romano made a low dive for the open alleyway where the Greco henchmen were sending a stream of bullets towards the scattered but concealed La Barbera _Mafiosi._. With a violent roar, Romano yanked the trigger. Everything became a blinding plethora of fusillade and rhythmic jerks as the bullets flew. Pandemonium ensued. His ears began to buzz.

Somehow, he managed to take aim among the shower of bullets that came his way. Two shadowy figures that were mere fuzzy silhouettes at the opposite end of the alley. The first collapsed. Then the second. And the gunfire ceased. The ugly, black machine gun slid from Romano's bruised and scratched hands, hitting the ground with a clank.

But the buzzing in his head would not go away.

"Aaah!" Blood. Blood on his hands. Seeping through the fabric of his suit. He clutched his shoulder. He could feel it, the cold metal bullet burning through his flesh.

"_Cazzo! Cazzo, cazzo, cazzo!"_

* * *

><p>1 Coglione- Jerk in Italian.<p>

2 Romanee-Conti- One of the finest and most expensive varieties of French wine, produced in Burgundy.

3 Neuhaus- Neuhaus chocolatier founded in 1857 by Jean Neuhaus (Brussels, Belgium) is widely lauded as one of the best, if not _the_ best, chocolate makers of the world.

4 Biblia Sacra Vvulgatae Editionis Tribvs Tomis Distincta- The title for the 4th century Latin edition of the Bible commonly known as the Biblio Vulgata or the Vulgate.

5 _Piazza del Duomo_- famous plaza in Florence. Has several of the most famous sights around it, including the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore (famous for its _Duomo_, or dome, built by the architect Brunelleschi during the Renaissance), _Giotto's Campanile_ (Giotto's bell tower), and the Baptistery of John the Baptiste.

6 _I dolci- _literally, Christmas sweets. Traditional ones include _struffoli, cenci, _dried figs, candied almonds, etc.

7 Buon Natale- Merry Christmas in Italian :D

8 The Campanile- an ancient bell tower often called Giotto's Bell Tower because its construction first began in 1334 under the architect Giotto de Bondone, though he only lived to see the completion of its first story. It is located adjacent to the Duomo. It is a slender, tall tower decorated with conspicuous colored marble on the outside.

9 Cazzo- F*ck in italian

10 Merda- I think I put this before, but just so you have another reference, it's shit in Italian.

11 …construction is how they got to him!- The period from the 1950s to the 1980s ushered on a construction boom in Palermo which destroyed its architectural grace and green belt. Known as the Sack of Palermo, the Sicilian Mafia's monopoly on real estate in Palermo was responsible for allowing the destroyed parts of the city (From WWII) to crumble and replacing its beauty with badly-constructed neighborhoods.

12 Cosche- plural for cosca (family). A mafia war is often called a war of the cosche.

13 Thompson submachine gun (Tommy gun)- invented by John T. Thompson, it was used throughout and after WWII. It is highly accurate and often used by the Mafia. It's about 32 in. long with a handle perpendicular to the barrel. Basically, it's the really badass type you see people walk around with in WWII movies.

14 Magnum gun- a pistol, often considered the most powerful handgun there is.

* * *

><p><em>First of all, i know that there are prolly some things that seem confusing right now, mostly because the next part isn't up yet *shoots self* and if you read on it'd make sense! Also, I did max research like usual, so I hope I got all those gun terms right... O.o (i'm not real updated on firearm history) Ok, I really wanna hear opinions, k? So reviews? xP <em>


	4. Part 4

_Ok, phew I got this done! __Awesome! (like prussia, kesesese) Anewayz, i really wanted to upload a part before break ended so here it is! It's shorter than the last one but I hope you guyz like! Btw, my friend has commented that it's painful to watch Romano get tortured xD. So I hafta say: Sorry, Romano! Hang in there! _

* * *

><p><strong><em><em>**_Cosa Nostra: _Part 4

**Palermo, Italy**

**January 11, 1963**

**2:06 am**

The strong smell of rubbing alcohol penetrated his nose and stung his eyes as he tentatively removed the cap on the plastic bottle. It was a miracle he managed to limp home clutching his wound, which was literally spurting blood through his fingers. Using his knowledge of shortcuts through the complex system of Palermo alleyways, he had navigated from the northeast side of town to his bleak, empty apartment in the southwest. Once he kicked the door open, he had forced himself through an excessively painful process of first cleaning the wound with raw soap and water then removing the bullet with the little supplies he had, which was a small blade and tweezers. He was beginning to see black spots.

But the worst wasn't over. Reluctantly, he stuffed a towel between his teeth. He could not afford to have citizens hearing screams of agony coming from his apartment. It would only spark panic in the frightened atmosphere that pervaded the city.

With violently shaking hands, he took the other towel, soaked it in rubbing alcohol, and pressed it on the deep wound. His entire body seized up in agony as his teeth sank into the towel. Muffled screams like a tortured animal. _God, save me! God, save me! God, save me!_

After twenty seconds of sheer torment, the piercing pain simmered down to a milder burn. Romano slid down to the floor and spat out the ragged towel. Leaning against the wall, he gasped for air as round beads of sweat dripped from his forehead. Then, he tightened a roll of gauze around the shoulder, hoping that he had managed to effectively stop the bleeding.

He reached up to wipe away the sweat on his face only to find his cheeks stained with tears. Tears he shed without knowing. He bit his lip and cursed himself for being weak. It was only a bullet. One bullet. How many bullets had burned his flesh during the past few decades? On the battlefield during the countless wars that progressively escalated every century? He's had worse before. What was so different this time? What made him so weak? And a single thought intruded his mind.

_I'm alone. _He shook his head angrily. _Stop thinking about that. But it's the truth…If you're going to think about that, then don't think at all! But thinking is my only freedom..._

Romano lifted his arm up to the bedside table and fumbled around blindly for another towel, but instead his hand landed on the cool, comforting smoothness of leather. He paused. The Vulgate Bible.

He released a long, weary sigh. The very voice of misery. Then, he pulled the antique Scripture into his lap and timidly nudged it open. The book was the only one of its kind, with Latin on one side and the Spanish vernacular* on the other. And an eon ago, it was also the book Spain used to teach him Spanish. _I was never a good student_, Romano thought with a humorless chuckle. The buzzing in his ear was becoming an indefinite drone, inundating his five senses. _I remember…when Spain used to joke…that the only thing we had in common was our being Catholic. And even so, I was never a good Catholic…_

A knock on the door. It shook every flimsy wall of the room.

"_Padrino! Padrino_, it's me."

Romano swore quietly under his breath. This was the last thing that he wanted to deal with right now, but he had known it was coming the moment he decided to abandon the cache. He got to his feet and inched his way to the door with the support of the wall. _Maybe this is what it feels like to be Atlas*__._

He swung open the door with his uninjured arm to find the youth standing in his doorway nervously, still looking rather dazed. Romano hadn't gotten the chance to closely examine the boy until now. He sprouted an inch or so above Romano, well-muscled and strong in the height of his youth. However, his face was that of an awkward boy, still uncertain of his place in the world. He had light brown hair and matching eyes, with a straight, statured nose but round jowls. Eighteen at most, he had neither the toughness of a soldier nor the cruelty of a _Mafioso_. He was staring at his _capo_ expectantly.

"Oh. It's you," Romano sighed. The very sight of this boy knotted up his stomach. For some uncanny reason, the younger _Mafioso_ reminded Romano of Veneziano

"The Don wishes to see you immediately, _padrino_," the youth said, his eyes trained on his _capo_'s injured shoulder.

"I see," Romano grunted, and hesitantly limped out the door on wobbly legs, shutting the door behind him with his foot.

"You are hurt, _padrino_" the youth stated, seemingly unable to take his eyes off of the nasty wound.

"Yeah. It's nothing. Just one bullet." They began slowly towards the middle of the town, the shabby office building home to Palermo Centro's seat of power. Romano suddenly realized that for all these years he's spent in Palermo, this was the first time, despite the fact he's going to see the greatest evil in the city, he walked down these streets like a normal citizen.

"I'm really sorry. I don't know what happened. I just couldn't think or move." Distress grew on the youth's face as he eyed the bandages guiltily.

"Like I said, it's just one bullet. It's fine. I've been through way worse during the War."

"You fought in the war, _padrino_?" The youth frowned, puzzled. "Excuse me, _padrino_, but you only look a few years my senior, much too young to have fought…"

_Stronzata. Why did I say that? _

"Uh, yeah. I look young, that's all." Romano ducked his head to avoid the youth's questioning gaze. It was hard to lie to this boy.

They stayed silent for the rest of the way.

* * *

><p>Under the synthetic, white light stood the Don, La Barbera. But not the one Romano had expected to see. Black hair, oily, mid-length, and in slight waves. A long, curved nose and a square jaw. Thin lips that formed a permanent scowl. A black cane in his hands. It was Salvatore's brother, Angelo La Barbera*. And if there was one person Romano detested more than Salvatore La Barbera, it was this man. Salvatore was greedy and merciless, but Angelo was a malicious monster.<p>

Romano stood in front of him, head bowed low to avoid the man's sinister gaze. The rest of the little squad of _Mafioso _Romano was in charge of stood to the side. All wore somber or nervous expressions.

Angelo La Barbera began to pace to and fro the room, watching them intently from the corner of his eye. "So," the Don began, "Signor Vargas. I was just passing by this afternoon to check up on some things for my brother. Unfortunately, he can't be here himself today. He's a busy man, you see, just like myself. But the first thing that I hear when I get here? That we lost yet _another_ cache," – he stopped in front of Romano with that bitter scowl on his face. He leaned down, his face only centimeters from Romano's – "But of course, I'm a reasonable man. So explain yourself, Signor Vargas."

La Barbera's breath reeked of tobacco. Romano cringed. "We were under attack, _padrino_," he answered in a flat monotone. "My men and I were there to relieve those who were under atta-"

Romano was cut off as La Barbera roughly seized him by the collar, forcing him to look into those eyes so dark and despicable. Romano silently glared.

"Then kindly explain to me, Signor Vargas, what happened to the money!" Romano's hands clenched into tight fists. The putrid smell made him want to hurl.

"There was no time, _padrino_. The Grecos' men set the building on fire."

Smack. A white flash, then the images refocused. Sharp pain on the side of his head. Hot blood rolled down his right temple. Romano was sprawled out on the floor, moaning incoherently. He lifted his head to find La Barbera looming over him, stroking the cane with an entertained smirk.

"Don't get too cocky, Signor Vargas. I _know_ what you are, and that doesn't stop me from punishing you." Angelo la Barbera hissed in his ear.

Another crack.

"Aaaaaahhhhhh!"

The cane landed square on his injured shoulder, not a millimeter off. Romano writhed on the floor in agony. The pain seared through his flesh like flames igniting in a forest. He tasted blood on his tongue. He had bitten the inside of his mouth in a desperate attempt to stop his own screaming. Dark black blotches crippled his vision. Everything was a blur. He heard laughs, cackles, echoing all around, forming a prison of haunting sound. The cane continued to batter him from all sides. His chest, his stomach, his ribs, his skull, and his burning shoulder.

_Spain….Spain…save me…_

"Stop it!"

It stopped. A foreboding silence.

Romano found himself lying face down on the concrete floor. His breathing slowed as he recollected himself and strained his eyes to see who had rescued him. He squinted up to see the defiant face of the youth with light brown eyes so much like his brother's. The youth glared at La Barbera but could not erase his own fear.

La Barbera turned his attention on the youth, intrigued. Romano saw it flash across the Don's charcoal eyes. The kill. Romano's blood froze.

Angelo la Barbera gestured for the boy to step forward. A moment of hesitation. Then, he stepped into the light. Romano tried to get the youth's attention from where he lay behind La Barbera. The beaten nation could only vigorously shake his head at the boy, dark green panic thick in his eyes. _No. Don't do it. He'll kill you. But he won't kill me. He _can't_ kill me! _

But the youth was too far gone.

"What's this? A sympathizer?" La Barbera began to slowly circle the youth like a hungry shark.

"H-He s-saved me, _padrino_," the youth stammered, knees shaking uncontrollably.

"Oh! I see, I see," La Barbera exclaimed, "So you mean to say that he was too busy saving _you_ instead of the money! Ah!" –an earsplitting clap as he feigned an epiphany- "I get it now. So it's really _your_ fault all along!"

The horror that settled onto the youth's face was too much for Romano to bear. He looked away with unshed tears behind his eyes.

Another loud crack, a scream, followed by a thump as the youth landed hard on his hands and knees. Then, his light brown eyes widened as he felt the ice-cold barrel of a pistol against the back of his head.

The last second. Light brown met dark green. The last thing he saw was his _capo'_s wistful gaze. A deafening shot rang across the room. Then, the youth saw nothing.

* * *

><p>Romano picked himself up from the floor, never taking his eyes off the limp body that was the boy. His young brown eyes were lost to another world. Lifeless.<p>

Romano trained his eyes on the scowling face of Angelo La Barbera. Crimson hatred. That was all he saw. _One day, you will be the one on the floor and I will be the one standing over you._ He hadn't felt anything like this in a very long while. It was as if all his emotions had finally thawed out after a long hibernation. They burned like a wildfire. _One day…one day…I swear to God I will._

La Barbera peered at the rest of the squad standing by with that awful scowl of his and cackled. "Let this be an example." Then he ordered the body to be disposed of and waved for the men to clear out. After some scuffling and shutting of doors, the only three left in the room were the Don, Romano, and Moretti.

"Now, Mr. Vargas," La Barbera continued pleasantly as if their little intermission was only a coffee break, "I have some work for you. The _real _reason I came here today." He took a seat in the single armchair, stroking his cane absentmindedly. "There's a rich man who's offered me a very good deal. He's interested in a large amount of babania* and is willing to pay good money for it. But of course, he has to inspect the product first. Unfortunately, he does not speak Italian well. You will seal the deal for me, _capisce*_?"

He did not wait for Romano's answer, but made a hand gesture at Moretti. Moretti nodded and swiftly exited the room.

La Barbera turned his sly scowl on Romano. "Let's keep this between you and me, shall we? There's no reason we need to trouble my brother about this."

_Of course. So he'd take all the money for himself. Un bastardo…_ But Romano only gave a curt nod and said nothing. He hid his fists behind his back, fingernails digging into palms. _You're a dead man, Angelo la Barbera. I have made my vow. _

A few moments later, Moretti returned followed by a figure dressed in a well-trimmed navy blue suit. But something about this figure was too…

"Ah, Signor Carriedo, I apologize for the long wait. I have brought you a translator." La Barbera stood up to greet the man warmly.

The pale, flickering light illuminated the mysterious client's clean-cut features. Curled brown strands peeked out beneath his black fedora. A healthy, sun-tanned complexion of golden wheat. Eyes like two pools of liquid emerald. It was the very face Romano could not forget. Spain.

* * *

><p>Romano almost forgot to breath. And he would have, too, if it weren't for the gentle admonition in Spain's eyes that told him not to panic. A million things ran through his mind, and at the same time nothing at all.<p>

"_Hola, me llamo_*_ Antonio Fernandez Carriedo._" The Spaniard held out a hand with the shadow of a smile upon his lips.

Romano's arm trembled as he took Spain's hand in a sluggish handshake. Spain gave Romano's hand a short, tight squeeze before withdrawing his hand.

"_Hola, me llamo Lovino Vargas." _It was all Romano could do to keep from tripping over his words.

"Well, then, Signor Vargas. Honor our agreement."With one last cackle, Angelo la Barbera swept out of the room.

Romano could only stare. Stare and try his best not to gape. Or bombard the Spaniard with angry questions. He glanced at Moretti, who stood off to the side, watching the two of them intently. It was not wise to act out, and both the nations knew. But for once, Romano had the upper hand. Try as he might, Moretti could not understand Spanish.

_"I'd like to see the babania first. I'm sure you would be delighted to give me a tour. I think I will rest first, though. It's been a long trip from Madrid, you see_," Spain said pleasantly (in Spanish).

"_Si, that will be the best arrangement. It is late, Senor Carriedo_." Romano stole another quick glance at Moretti. "_What time will be the best for you?"_

"_Tomorrow afternoon, three o'clock. I'll meet you in front of this building."_

"_Good. That will be good."_ Romano's speech was short, uptight, and overformal. His overexcited nerves were jumping all over the place.

"_Buenas noches*, Senor Vargas."_

_"Buenas noches, Senor Carriedo."_

And with that, Spain turned to leave, but stopped just as he reached to push the door open. "_Don't forget to say your prayers, Senor Vargas," _he said, then quietly slipped out.

A short pause. Then, Moretti approached.

"When does he wish to meet, _padrino_?"

"Three o'clock pm tomorrow," Romano said simply. But he was already cursing himself for not asking where Spain was staying. How could he expect to be left alone with the client in such an important bargain? And he couldn't lie to Moretti either, for fear of…consequences.

Romano left the room without another word, his gait stiff and unnatural.

* * *

><p><strong>Palermo, Italy<strong>

**January 11, 1963**

**4:57 am**

_Cazzo! What the hell is he doing here? That idiota, he'll only get himself hurt! How'd he find me, anyway? What does he think he's doing? What the fuck?_

Such was Romano's thoughts as he sat on his bed, face buried in hands and ready to rip out fistfuls of hair. There were a million questions and a billion worries. Spain will end up getting injured. He can't die*, but what with all the commotion and the war, it was hard not to get shot just taking a brief walk on the street. The image of the youth's limp body crumpling to the floor flashed before his eyes. What will La Barbera do to Spain if he found out the Spaniard's true identity? What sort of torture will Spain have to bear? It was unthinkable.

Romano tried to concentrate on the big picture, but another idea had been distracting him ever since Spain stepped into that room. _He knows what I'm doing. He knows I'm…I'm _this. _He knows I'm a monster. _The iron truth. In the end, it was what hurt the most. _God, what will I do? What _can_ I do?_ A surge of imminent tears stung his eyes and nose. _Affanculo! _

He sprang to his feet and desperately rummaged around for liquor. Any liquor. It didn't matter anymore whether it was Italian, Russian, German, Spanish, English, or French. And the only bottle left happened to be French.

He faltered, kneeling on the grey, concrete floor with the bottle of _Romanee-Conti_ in his hands. Then, he saw Spain's sunny smile as he stepped through the door that Christmas morning with those accursed presents. And the tears flowed. Like a broken faucet.

He seized the cork and twisted it out with sheer barbaric emotion. Throwing his head back, he tipped the bottle to his lips and—

Stopped. He stopped. Because of the smell that filled his nose. That powerful odor that floated out from the wine bottle. It was definitely _not_ wine.

Romano peered inside the scant opening to see a thick, black liquid filled up to a spot a little below the neck. The odor was similar to gasoline. It wasn't wine, it was petroleum. And this wasn't _Romanee-Conti_. It was an unfinished Molotov cocktail*. All that was missing was the cloth.

He simply sat there on the ground and stared at the bottle. A Molotov. It was a weapon. It was hope. _But how did he…_ And then, a single sentence resounded through his mind.

"_Don't forget to say your prayers, Senor Vargas…"_

Romano jumped to his feet, hurriedly set the Molotov on his desk, and rushed over to his bedside table, where the Vulgate lay peaceful and undisturbed. Seizing it as if it were a lifeline, Romano flipped the bible open and scrambled to find the page. That page. His favorite verse. The one that they used to read together every night. He wasn't sure what he was looking for. A message, a few words...somehow, he had a gut feeling.

His feverish fingers brushed the frail, old pages with familiarity, finally stopping when his eyes landed on the Latin verse. He paused, suddenly choked by an indescribable feeling. A sweet melancholy that didn't make sense.

With a small sigh, he sank down on the bed again and began to read. How long had it been since he'd read Latin? His pace was slow. It was that feeling of remembering something wonderful from long past, something forgotten. It was strange to learn Latin again. Latin, the miracle that had brought him and Spain together.

"_To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.  
>A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to reap that which is planted.<br>A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;  
>A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.<br>A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing.  
>A time to get and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;<br>A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence and a time to speak;  
>A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace." -Ecclesiastes 3: 1<em>

It was just as it was centuries ago, its neat words etched into the yellowed page with beautiful, ancient calligraphy. Romano finally recalled why he loved this verse so much. It was because every time he read it, he would wonder. _What time is it right now for me_? But he would never have an answer. But Spain always did. "Time to go to sleep, Romano."

He sighed, marveling at the unchanged power and elegance of those words. But that was precisely the problem. The page was completely unchanged. There were no new marks whatsoever. _Maybe I'm over-thinking this? Maybe Spain doesn't have a plan after all._ Romano carefully inspected the page from top to bottom, then flipped through the entire Bible forwards and back. Still nothing. He eventually ended back on the same page with the same verse that he began with and, grumbling in frustration, was about to give up when he noticed something strange about the page. He rubbed the page between his fingers as a frown emerged on his forehead. This page was at least twice as thick at the other pages. _Could it be…_

Abruptly struck by a notion, he raised the book perpendicular to eyelevel and gingerly lifted the page to inspect it under the light. Just as he had predicted, the edge of the paper was skillfully stitched together from the side. There were actually two layers to the page, and when sewn together, formed a hidden compartment between the two layers!

Eagerly, he cut open the thread with a small blade and the two layers fell apart. And out slid two pieces of paper. Romano immediately snatched up the first page and began to read. The letter was a masterpiece of graceful, loopy Spanish, unmistakably Spain's handwriting.

_"By the time you get this letter, you're probably very confused. Boss apologizes for suddenly dropping in like this! But I knew you wouldn't listen if I just talked to you about it straight up. But I digress._

_We're here to get you out, Romano. The other piece of paper enclosed with this one is of crucial importance. It is a copy of a record containing accurate information about recent illegal shipments of smuggled goods to the United States between the Cosa Nostra and the American mafia. The document is marked with the official stamp of the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation so you can be sure it's real (We borrowed from Senor America). The document should be able to get you out unharmed. I don't know what they threatened you with, but you can be sure that they won't lay a finger on you if you have this document._

_The next time you see me, we'll be watched for sure. After you show me the cocaine, we'll split and meet back up in the ghetto. Make sure you're not being followed. I'll get you out safely. I promise._

_With Love,_

_Boss_

_P.S: You might want to open the rest of your presents. But you probably already opened the wine by now. You always resort to alcohol when you're confused."_

Letter clutched tightly to his chest, he simply sat and blankly stared at the miracle in his hands. A little piece of hope. Of heaven. _Spain. You came to save me. You always came to save me, ever since I was little. I'm sorry I ever doubted you. How do you do it? How did you know?_

Suddenly, he was overtaken by a burst of spontaneous joy. No, more than joy. Romano flopped back on the bed, laughing like a crazed maniac until his ribs ached and tears formed in his eyes. _Spain, Spain, you idiota! You know me too well! _It was the thrill of hope that electrified his body, mind, and soul. He felt his heart pumping blood through every artery, vein, and capillary in his body. For the first time in five long years, he felt alive.

* * *

><p>1 Spanish vernacular- the vernacular language is everyday language (eg. In England, the vernacular is English). The reason a translation from Latin to vernacular is rare is due to the fact that Latin was the language of the scholars until the vernacular movement during the Renaissance. Up until that point, scholars all communicate in Latin.<p>

2 Atlas- In Greek mythology, Atlas was a Titan who was condemned to hold up the sky for eternity.

3 Angelo La Barbera-(July 3, 1924 – July, 1975). He ruled Palermo Centro alongside his brother Salvatore La Barbera.

4 Babania- cocaine, if you forgot. xD

5 Capisce- understand?

6 Hola, me llamo- Hello, my name is… (literally, hello, I am called…)

7 Buenas noches- Good night.

8 He can't die- Nations can't die, guys. It's the golden rule.

9 Molotov cocktail- also known as a petrol bomb or Molotov bomb, it was developed in warfare as an improvised incendiary weapon. The classic Molotov is a bottle filled with either gasoline or a mixture of napalm and petroleum. A cloth wick is dipped in something flammable, usu. kerosene, and held in place by the bottle's stopper. When used, the wick is lit and the bottle thrown at the target. Different variations of the Molotov can produce different effects. For example, the sticky Molotov produces a lot of smoke and is good for sticking to targets (good for tanks).

* * *

><p>Ok, sorry if the Spanish is bad. I don't know a single word of spanish, aside from counting to four and hi and thank you and stuff. And the same goes for Italian. I have to completely depends on online translators. xD I fail. Anewayz, reviewzzzes?<p> 


	5. Part 5

_Ok, the fifth part is OUT. I feel like a champion! Enjoiiii~ ^^ (btw, is it just me or is this one super lacking in footnotes? xP)_

* * *

><p><em>Cosa Nostra: <em>Part 5

**Palermo, Italy**

**January 11, 1963**

**5:38 am**

Eventually, he calmed down enough to reread the letter again. And again. And again. He had to make sure that miraculous piece of paper in his hands was real. Then he noticed something. _We? …I should've known. Spain's way too blunt to come up with all this on his own. The detail of it…the perfection of strategy…It almost reminds me of…_

"_I hope you know what you're doing…" _The image of Germany's statured nose and strong jawbone, blue eyes full of fatigue..._Why does it have to be that potato bastard! I hate you, Spain! _But even as he thought this, Romano had a wide grin on his face that wouldn't go away. His cheek muscles were sore. It didn't really matter anymore who "we" referred to. It didn't matter how they found him. Because Spain was here. Spain came for him.

Romano lay there on his bed for a long time, simply enjoying the pulsating blood that revitalized his entire being. He couldn't think. Nor was he trying to. He closed his eyes, seeing the words of the rumpled letter he clutched tightly to his chest imprinted on the inside of his eyelids. _"We're here to get you out Romano…I'll get you out safely. I promise...With love, Boss…with love…"_

"_P.S…"_

As if suddenly electrocuted, Romano sprang out of bed. _The rest of the presents!_ How could he have forgotten?

He rushed to the closet and, wrenching open the door, grabbed the box of Belgian chocolates and the sapphire from behind a disarray of clothing where he carefully concealed them in an attempt to forget their very existence. But now, he understood. Why Spain gave him such strange gifts. Why Spain was behaving so unnaturally. Why Spain looked at him in that way he couldn't describe before. Now he knew what it was. It was knowing. The whole time, Spain knew.

He flung open the lid to reveal daintily arrange pieces of decorated chocolates sitting neatly in white, ruffled paper. There were three tiers. Romano lifted each tier up, hoping to find something underneath. He was disappointed each time. _But it couldn't be just chocolates..._Then he noticed the lid he had just tossed to the side. On the bottom of lid was a little note that read "_No comen._*_"_ The handwriting was unmistakably Spain's.

A deep frown weighed down on Romano's brows. _Do not eat? What the hell? _Then, a sudden spark of inspiration. _The letter was hidden within the pages…so what if…_

He grabbed a cup from the cupboard and placed it on the coffee table. Then, with steady and careful hands, he split a piece of chocolate in half. Plop. Colorless liquid dropped into the cup. A faint, bitter almond odor hit his nose and he automatically drew back, covering his nose and mouth with his hand. _ Cyanide_*_? _

It was indeed cyanide. But it was a very weak concoction. After going through each piece of chocolate, Romano had collected about a cupful of cyanide and another note. The note had informed him that the mixture was not lethal if small doses were used but would definitely induce nausea, dizziness, and eventually fainting. _This will definitely come in handy. _

A beam of red sunlight streamed through the half-drawn curtains. The refraction hit Romano square in the face. He twisted his head sideways with one arm protecting his eyes from the blinding light, in search of the place the light was reflecting off of. He traced the light to find a brilliant, azure shine that lay partly-concealed in a black, velvet box. It was the sapphire. He had carelessly thrown it on the coffee table and completely forgotten about it during his excitement about the cyanide.

He sighed and grabbed the cold, smooth jewel from its box and examined it closely. But there really wasn't much to see besides the dazzling gaudiness that showed Romano his own disgruntled reflection far too many times.

He shrugged, then decided that there must be something hidden in the box. After twenty minutes of tearing apart the velvet box, Romano let out a frustrated grunt and threw the remnants of the box into the trash. He reclined back on the couch and began to absentmindedly play with the precious stone, tossing it from one hand to the other. _What in the name of hell can I do with you? _He allowed his mind to wander._ It's things like you that make people die, you know. I see it every day, those ugly beasts fighting over your false value. It's all about money. All they care about is money. Not lives. But you won't fool me. To me, you're worth nothing. So why would Spain give me something like you…_

Then it hit him. Just like that. So simple. Such an elegant solution. Romano sprang to his feet, then sat down again. It was so obvious. So obvious it was literally hitting him in the face. Why didn't he see it before? Romano didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

It was exactly because of its false value that Spain had given it to him. Its material value. Because those ignorant fools would fight over it. It was the perfect bribe.

Romano laughed. At what, he wasn't sure. Then, with one last toss and catch, he pocketed the stone as if it was merely a 10-lire*. He walked over to his bed and tucked Spain's precious letter under his pillow along with the FBI document. Then he fell back onto the bed and promptly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

**Palermo, Italy**

**January 11, 1963**

**4:31 pm**

Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Romano's excited heartbeat matched the frenzied pitter-patter of his footsteps as he once again found himself racing through those winding alleys toward the ghetto. He had spent two miserable hours touring cocaine factories with Spain while Moretti trailed behind them like a soundless automaton. Now, he was finally going to see Spain in private.

It was the first time that he had ran through these decrepit alleys during the day, and oddly enough, the sunlight almost made the crumbling, red-brown bricks lovely in their own, strange way. As if intuition hit him, Romano suddenly looked up. And was stunned for a moment or two. He had never noticed them. The balconies and windows. The billowing linen and potted flowers that flanked this alley. All this time he thought he was running through the night, alone and in the dark. But all this time, if he had only raised his head a few measly inches, he would find so many windows watching over him, each with fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters residing behind their glass panes. _That's right. I've forgotten. The people of Palermo…are still here. _

The windows grew dirtier and dirtier, smaller and smaller, until most ceased to have glass on their frames at all. That was how Romano knew he had arrived. The alley fed out into a wider dirt road with rundown shacks lining its sides. The streets were almost barren for the exception of the homeless, who clung together in desperate huddles, ragged clothing ripped and hanging off of their wasted frames. Old men with grey beards, children with grubby hands, women with stringy, knotted hair. Romano slowed to a stop. A deep pang of guilt struck him in the stomach. _Is this really what I'm helping to create? God, I deserve worse than hell. All this time, I've been so caught up in my own misery…_ Romano tried to approach one of the children curled up in a corner, but the child quickly scrambled off, dragging a broken foot behind him.

Romano frowned in confusion, but the frightened looks they all fixed him with soon made him realize. _That's right. I'm dressed as Mafioso. _He cursed under his breath and finally began to scan the streets for any sign of Spain. But the ghetto was unprecedentedly large. Where could Spain be?

"_Scusa, Signor?*_" He felt a slight tug on his suit from behind. He whirled around, alarmed, only to find a small boy, only about six or seven, staring up at him with big chocolate-brown eyes. The little boy was clearly not one of the homeless, but he was poor nonetheless. Thin, down to the very bones, and appearing so very frail Romano was afraid a sudden gust of wind was going to blow him away. But the strangest part was that Romano had an uncanny feeling he had met the boy somewhere before.

"Are you looking for Signor Carriedo?" the boy asked.

"_Si! Si! _Where is he?" he replied, struck by sudden urgency.

But to Romano's surprise, the boy asked him an eccentric question in return. "What type of wine would you like, _Signor_?"

"Italian!" was Romano's resounding answer.

The boy flashed him a wide grin and, without warning, took his hand. "Come with me, Signor Vargas."

Romano was a bit taken aback at the oddity of this boy's approach, but was too excited to care. He was going to see Spain. He was going to talk to Spain. Finally.

The boy led him into the labyrinthine alleyways, a section that he had never set foot in. Wherever Spain was, he made sure no one would find him. _For God's sake, this plan is detail-oriented. Typical German. How did Spain find this kid anyway?_

"_Signor, _was he brave? My _fratello_, I mean."

The boy's question caught him off guard. His _fratello_? Romano frowned, confused.

"Do I know him?"

The boy stopped in his tracks. "Signor Carriedo said that you do. My _fratello_, Paolo. Surely you remember him, right?" His soft brown eyes were panicked.

_I'm sure I've seen this kid before…his eyes…remind me of Veneziano's. _

Then he suddenly remembered. The light brown eyes and hair. The rounded jowls and straight nose. Though the little boy was not even half his brother's age, the resemblance was still unmistakable. It was the youth. The youth who had given his life. Who had died for him. _So his name was Paolo…_

"I…I do know him," Romano replied slowly. The bloody images flashed across his eyes. The way he crumpled onto the ground and drew his last breath. "Yes, he was brave. Very brave." Romano forced a smile. "He saved my life."

The youth grinned back, then took Romano's hand again, continuing on his way. "I am glad. Signor Carriedo tells me that you are a very important person. He says that you can save us."

A lump formed in Romano's throat. His tongue felt like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth. _Spain…you idiota. Why did you lie to this child? _

Romano decided it was time to change the subject. "How come you are here?"

"My father, uncles, and brothers all serve the Family. But last summer, my father seems to have gotten into a fight with some men from work…and they came in the middle of the night. My father and brothers were out working. The men killed my mother and sisters. But I hid. Paolo found me and brought me here. He said I would be safe. But he only came once in a while to bring me some food. He could not come often. Then I met Signor Carriedo, who was kind and took care of me when he was here. But I don't know what to do now that my brother is gone. I can't find my father and I can't go to my uncles. They will not want me." The boy was growing more and more anxious as he went on. Romano quickly interrupted him.

"When did you meet Signor Carriedo?"

"About six months ago. I was being chased by a few boys who tried to steal my bread. The funny thing was, I ran right into him and made him fall. Signor Carriedo, I mean. But he was not angry. Instead, he helped me," the boy explained happily. Romano let out a small sigh. _He never gets mad. Even when I would mess up his house and hog his bed when I was little...how ironic that he would form an alliance with Paolo's little brother, of all people. _

"Then he told me why he was here. He said he was here to find someone very important to him, who was also very important to _us_,"the boy continued.

"Us?"

"I didn't understand at first either. But he means the people. Of Palermo that is." The child glanced behind his shoulder and flashed Romano the brightest, purest smile. "And now that he has found you, I am sure we will be safe very soon."

_Someone important…could I really be that?_ And yet those words almost brought tears to his eyes. Tears of joy. To know that he was important enough to bring a smile unto this innocent child's face. To know that he was just that important to Spain.

As they walked down that twisted alley, Romano lifted his head and saw the windows and balconies hovering above. There were dark-skinned women laboring away with multiple children climbing all over them. There were little girls with colorful bows in their hair, blowing at paper pinwheels and singing songs. There were rowdy men drinking beer and playing poker, talking and laughing about nothing in particular. These people had all endured and survived under the rule of the mafia. And yet their lives went on. _Perhaps, _he thought, _perhaps it was not so impossible after all_.

"We are here," the boy informed him, pointing to a small corner that multiple alleys opened up to. Dry, eroded remnants of an ancient fountain were built into the corner, a desolate remainder of years gone by. "Signor Carriedo should be here soon."

Romano sat down on the ancient fountain to wait for Spain. The boy turned and ran off, already a bobbing figure in the distance in a flash.

"Wait!" Romano shouted after him. "What's your name?"

"My name is Elpidio, Signor Vargas!" The boy's voice echoed along the walls of the alley. He soon disappeared inside the labyrinth of alleyways.

"Elpidio…" Romano mumbled to himself thoughtfully.

A soft, familiar Spanish accent finished his sentence. "…means hope*."

"Are you _insane?_ You _bastardo!_" Romano wasn't sure why but his immediate reaction was to slap the living daylights out of the Spaniard, in hopes that when Spain woke up, there was would be at least one atom of sanity in that jumbled Spanish head of his. And he almost did. Almost.

Fist raised high, ready to pound into Spain's gut, gnashing his teeth like an enraged beast. Instead, he stopped, made a frustrated noise, then gave up and lowered his arm. He sat down on the ledge of the fountain and buried his face in his hands. "_Merda…_Spain…how long have you known? How did you…find out…"

"Romano…" Spain sat down next to Romano and put a gentle arm around the Italian's shoulder. The Spaniard's green eyes were all concern and sympathy.

"Just tell me, you _idiota._"

Spain sighed. Then he told him.

"Well, five years ago, you suddenly disappeared." Romano raised his head, eyes wide in disbelief. _Five years? He's known for the whole five years?_ "I mean, of course the government office in Rome still claimed that you were working for them, but I couldn't reach you anywhere. When I called your house, you never picked up. And when I called your office, they simply said you were unavailable. Eventually, the office got annoyed enough with me to let in that you had been moved temporarily to Sicily to 'help the developing economy.'" Spain gazed back at Romano with a sad little smile. Two pairs of green eyes stared straight into each other, one heavier and the other lighter in spirit.

"By that point I was starting to…freak out, you might say." A small chuckle. "So I went to the only person I could think of: Germany. He was the most familiar with your home's situation and is quite an expertise in, um, this particular field."

"Oh, Spain, why did you have to go to that potato bastard?" Romano interrupted Spain with an irritated sigh.

"Like I said, he knew what to do. And he's not out to get you, despite what you might think. I mean, he may be a serious fellow, but-"

"Ok, ok! I get it! Just go on!" Romano sulked. Spain laughed and ruffled his hair. Romano shoved his hand away with more force than necessary.

"So, Germany sent Boss on a reconnaissance mission to Rome. I went to your house, but it was completely emptied out. Even all the furniture was gone, and the floor was covered in dust," Spain continued in a more lighthearted tone.

"_Si…_they burned everything…to get rid of any potential evidence…" Romano mumbled wistfully.

"Then I paid the boys at the office a good visit. But come to think of it, I don't think they enjoyed it very much." Spain laughed sheepishly, scratching his head while he recalled that he had threatened that poor nervous man with an unloaded gun. Unloaded, but very real. Romano scrutinized the Spaniard suspiciously. _Did he threaten someone for _me_? No, he can't have. Spain...this is _Spain_!_

"Boss should apologize to him…but, ahem, so we found out you were in Palermo. Of course, we had no idea why, but it didn't take Germany long to figure it out. He pulled some strings and I came to 'investigate' a few times. Sometimes I really wish I had his logic, you know, but then again, what else can you expect from Prussia's _hermanito_5…"

Romano remained silent, lost in thought. He didn't know what to say. He didn't even know what to feel. Germany, whom he had always so eagerly antagonized. Germany, whom he had always went out of his way to trouble. Germany, whom he himself _knew_ he would _not_ have voluntarily helped if their roles were reversed.

Suddenly, Spain seized both of Romano's hands in his own and fully faced the absentminded Italian, an indescribably intense and earnest plea in his bright emerald eyes.

"Wh-what are you doing?" Romano panicked. He swore at himself for being so stupid. Why did the energy drain out from his entire body like that? Just from the slightest touch.

"Romano."

"Wh-what? You're scaring me!" The look in Spain's eyes was killing him.

"I need you to forgive Boss."

"What are you going on about y-you…"

"I wanted to come for you sooner, I swear I did! But we had to wait for the right chance! We had to wait for you to come back just once, so we could learn about your situation and formulate a plan! Because Germany said if we simply barge in then everyone could end up getting hurt! I-I'm so sorry, Romano! I'm so sorry that you had to endure all that time…"

Silence. Romano did not know what to say. Except for one word. "_Idiota._"

Followed by an outburst. "You _bastardo! _You stupid, stupid bastard! You…you…ugh, YOU!" _Why do you have to be so oblivious? And not make any sense?_

Spain was in a frenzy. "Romano, Boss is really s-"

"No, don't you _dare_ apologize! If you apologize to me, who the hell am _I_ supposed to apologize to?" Romano pointed an accusatory finger at him emphatically.

" Wha? But…"

Romano sprang to his feet. "Ugh! You're always so stupid! Why in _hell_ would you apologize to me? Look at yourself! You wasted so much energy just to come here and save me! And I haven't even uttered one word of thanks! All I ever do is get myself in deep shit and wait for you to bail me out! So don't _ever_ utter a single word of apology _ever again_!"

Spain's bewildered expression suddenly grew serious again. He stood up and faced Romano. They were barely an inch apart. Romano could feel his own quickening heartbeat pounding deafeningly in his chest. He could only hope that Spain did not hear it, too.

Then, Spain suddenly broke into a smile. It was one of those smiles that Romano hated so much. The one so full of simple kindness and understanding, with a twinge of melancholy. It complicated everything.

Spain put a gentle hand on Romano's shoulder. Gentle but somehow firm at the same time. "It's Boss's job to take care of Romano."

Blood immediately shot to Romano's face, painting his cheeks an unwillingly deep red. He was taken aback by the confidence in Spain's answer, as if he truly believed every word he said.

"Spain…you…don't actually believe that, right?" _I knew it would come down to this one day…I knew that I'd have to face it eventually…_

But Romano regretted his words as soon as he saw the startled hurt reflect in Spain's eyes. "I…I meant to say that…for all these years…you've always…and I just…"

But Spain's eyes had already dimmed. No. Not dimmed. They grew solemn. Solemn, but so strong…radiating vibrations. His gaze bore into Romano's eyes, heavy and powerful. He in leaned in. Romano felt the hot breath on his face, and caught himself subconsciously holding his breath, his entire body tense with…

Spain closed the narrow gap between their lips.

And there was nothing. And everything. Nothing and everything at the same time. Because at that exact moment, Romano had nothing to hate and everything to love. Time stopped passing. He stopped thinking. For one moment, he knew forever. Forever living, forever breathing, forever young. Forever blissful. With Spain. His eyes were tightly shut. All he could see…colors..light…fireworks.

Spain pulled away gently. The vibrant colors settled in his mind's eye into a glowing, warm haze. Romano opened his eyes to see bright, sunny, smiling green eyes gazing back at him sincerely.

"Never doubt, Romano, that I love you."

They sat in silence on fountain ledge. Romano was turned away from Spain, arms crossed, his face crimson as he sulked. Spain slung an arm across the his shoulder beseechingly.

"Romanooo..." he whined, "You make Boss so sad."

"Sh-shut up! Y-you pervert!" Romano fumed.

Spain grabbed his arms and shook him back and forth, like a little kid begging for candy. "Romanooo...but Boss has more to tell you!"

"Wh-what…" Romano was reluctant, but turned back to face Spain. He quickly averted his eyes at the triumphant grin on Spain's face.

However, Spain was serious again. "Can you make it to the docks tonight? Germany will have a boat over here by midnight. We'll cut straight to Naples." He grinned.

But Romano hesitated. He had been so relieved that Spain had come for him and couldn't wait to escape this miserable place at the first opportunity. But ever since this afternoon, he had been mulling over something in his mind…perhaps he was wrong? Wrong to leave? The thought of all those people behind all those windows…and Elpidio. Elpidio had said that he was important. Elpidio believed in him.

Slowly, he came to a decision. "Hey, Spain…listen. I can't leave. Not yet."

"What do you mean?" Spain was quizzical.

"I have to see this thing through to the end." He was now determined. "You've seen what it's like, for the people I mean. And the gunfights…it's just like a confused web of guerilla warfare*. There's no rhyme or reason and civilians just end up getting hurt."

"So what you're saying is…"

"I can't desert them. Not now of all times. I have to end it. The core of this whole damned thing is the La Barbera brothers. If I can get rid of them, then the war will wear itself out quickly. It won't be hard either. The La Barberas are losing ground."

Spain said nothing. Romano was nervous, afraid to glance at the other man's face. _He did all this…came all this way… and this is what I tell him…_It was hard to swallow the guilt, but he had to. If he abandoned the city now, he would regret it for the rest of his long, miserable life.

"I'm really sorry. But it's my duty. As a nation…" his voice trailed off into the soft breeze of the blazing afternoon.

"Of course." Romano snapped his head up at this unexpected response to see Spain grinning down at him.

"Didn't you wonder why I gave you all those Christmas presents if I just expected you to leave with me tonight?" He grinned cheerfully.

"Wha-?But how did you know? I didn't even know!" Flabbergasted was the right word. The _only_ word. Everything made sense now. Why Spain gave him all those weapons. Why Spain had told little Elpidio he was their savior. Because it was a subtle reminder. Of who he was. Of his duty. And his duty was to fight. For his own people whom he loved.

Spain shrugged nonchalantly. "Just…kind of had a feeling I guess, "he smiled knowingly. _You liar…_

"But, anyway, I'll fight with you." That was the last thing Romano wanted to hear.

"No! I won't let you!"

"You think I'm just going to let you face all that by yourself again? No way!"

"But-"

"Plus, I've got more experience with guerilla."

"Hey! That's a lie! I had the Risorgimento* only several decades ago!"

"I fought against _Napoleon*_!"

"…"

Spain sighed and cracked a small smile. "Boss is happy to help, Romano."

Romano chewed on his lip. "Ugh! You! I hate you, you _idiota!_" He was flustered, but defeated.

"Haha…" Spain chuckled and ruffled his hair, then he rose to his feet, motioning for the other man to follow.

"Come on. We better drop Germany a call."

"Wait…just one more question…"

Spain waited with his usual saintly patience as Romano continued to chew on his bottom lip. He had been itching to ask this the whole time.

"…Does Veneziano know?" _It would kill him if he knew. It would. _

Spain shook his head. Romano breathed a sigh of relief. "Good…oh, and there's a bomb under his house…"

"_¡Dios Mío!_*_"_ Spain exclaimed, "For all this time, too! But it's ok now. He's over in Naples with Germany right now. He hasn't got a clue. Thinks he's there on vacation. Well, he is, but, you know…"

"_Bastardo…_" Romano grumbled at the unpleasant thought of his brother's clinginess to Germany, suddenly unwilling to go with Spain to make the call. But as always, he did anyway, the reddening sunlight filtering in from above as they slowly chatted off into the distance.

* * *

><p>1 No comen- "do not eat" in Spanish<p>

2 Cyanide- a chemical compound commonly used in blood agents, or fast-reacting chemicals that are potentially lethal if absorbed into the bloodstream. Usually, we see cyanide used in movies as pills spies use, but yes it does come in liquid form.

3 Lira- official currency of Italy before 2002 (introduction of the Euro, which right now isn't doing so hot…). Coins came in 1, 2, 5, and 10 (lires).

4 Scusa, Signor?- Excuse me (informal), Mister?

5 Elpidio- it means hope in Italian, Spanish, and some other languages...

6 Hermanito- little brother in Spanish

7 Guerilla warfare- an irregular form of warfare in which small groups of armed combatants use mainly ambushes, sabotages, and the like against larger armies. If used correctly, this type of fighting is quite effective, especially during revolutions against government armies. Its specialty is in its mobility.

8 Risorgimento (1815-1871)- "The Resurgence" was an Italian political movement that ended with Italian unification. During this movement, the South Italian revolutionaries, aka the Redshirts (Camicie rosse), led by master of guerilla warfare Giuseppe Garibaldi "the sword," fought and unified most of South Italy.

9 I fought against Napoleon- Spain is referring to the Peninsular War (1808-1814), which was a part of the Napoleonic Wars, in which Spain and its ally Great Britain fought against France for control of the Iberian Peninsula. By that point in history, Napoleon had basically taken over continental Europe (literally taking over some countries and forcefully allying others. And continental Europe refers to everyone except for Iggy. We can't live without you, Iggs! :D), Spain included. Spain was the first to fight back, and soon other countries followed. This war is known for the emergence of large-scale guerilla warfare, hence the reference.

10 Dios Mio- Oh, my God in Spanish.

* * *

><p><em>Ok, several things. <em>

_First of all, you guys might (or not) have noticed that I changed the title from La Cosa Nostra to simply Cosa Nostra. This is because an awesome reader who is actually Italian commented and told me that it should just be Cosa Nostra. And also, I'll be changing some details (especially in the first two chapters) about Italian culture and Italian diction, etc because this awesome reader also pointed out a bunch of the mistakes i made. that's what u get for abusing google... xD (it's hard for a non-native.)_

_Secondly, the next part WILL BE THE LAST PART so I'll be wrapping up next time, which means super intense whoo! God, i was originally planning for four parts. and it's dragged onto six. xD well, i hafta admit i'm kinda sad that it's ending. TT_TT_

_Third, I should've done this a long time ago but i forgot to, so here it is. Disclaimer: some minor characters such as Moretti and Paolo are completely fiction and not associated in any way to history or Himaruya. _

_Finally, i hafta apologize once again for any inaccuracies, especially culturally based and language-wise because googling doesn't always give you the right answer. xD i do NOT speak a WORD of italian or spanish so please tell me if anything's awkward or wrong or something. Anewayz, reviews? :D_


	6. Part 6

_Alright, guys. Here's the deal. Remember when I said on the last part that i released way back like two months ago that this would be the last part. Well, I lied.^^' Once again, after adding in all the detail, it's WAY longer than I expected... TT_TT So i'll hafta work at this for like another month. and SO SORRY ABOUT THE LATE UPDATE. I lost a little inspiration somewhere in the middle and was distracted by my strong urge to write my other fanfic, Prussian Blue. But enjoiii~ _

* * *

><p><strong>Palermo, Italy<strong>

**January 14, 1963**

**9:24 pm**

Three days. It has only been a mere three days. But these three days had revived in him a kind of flame, a spirit, the past four years had slowly eaten away. It was hope.

In the mafia, being such a widespread and complex system of mobs and gangs, there were always small, scattered groups of dissenters or conspirators: those who were coerced, those who were hateful, and those who were ambitious. This he knew very well. But, prior to now, he had never bothered to find out to what exact extent. Or perhaps the scale had doubled, or even tripled, with the imminent collapse of the La Barberas' vast empire. And all they needed was a little…incentive.

_"_What do you have to offer us?"they demanded of him. It wasn't a conspiracy, but all the conspiracies gathered in one dark, tiny, room below a rundown factory in the outskirts of Palermo. Romano stood on slightly elevated ground, on a platform, so all the men could see the face of the man who had gathered them here and ask him rude, biting questions. As for Romano, there was a dangerous and mischievous joy in standing on this platform. That tempting sensation of being in control.

He simply shrugged, "Whatever's left of the La Barbera's empire_." _

A hushed whisper passed through crowd of shady men gathered in the room, followed by greedy, suspicious glances aimed at the capo who claimed to be making an offer for the overthrow of the family.

Romano gazed back with cold, green eyes. "Really, I have no interest in his money. Gold befouled by dirty hands will remain unclean." The tension in the room peaked. Every man's fingertips swept towards his pistol hidden beneath his suit. Every pair of paranoid eyes flickered dangerously at its rivals, scrutinizing them with the worst of intentions.

The greed that burned so darkly in their eyes made Romano want to throw up on the spot. He subconsciously glanced to the back corner of the room, searching for reassurance. Standing by the door like a quiet usher, Spain met his gaze and flashed him a meaningful smile, then a quick wink. Taken aback, Romano immediately faked a cough to cover up his fluster. _Don't flirt with me now! This is serious business!_

"Ahem…_compare*_, there is one last 'prize,' so to speak, that may prove a nice decoration for your book shelves at home…" From inside his jacket, Romano carefully drew out the precious sapphire. Under the dim light of the dark, grey-walled room, its blue brilliance seemed to radiate even brighter, permeating every corner of the dank, stuffy space. It seemed to spark a blue flame of hunger in each pair of insatiable eyes, reflecting its luxurious, azure glow like flickering jealousy.

One quick sweep of the men's faces before him, and Romano knew that he had won. "When the family is defeated, I'll leave _this_," –he weighed the sapphire in his hand as if it were nothing more than a pebble he picked up from the roadside—"at the Don's current place of residence. You're free to do whatever you'd like with it." Their silent, craving eyes traced the sapphire in Romano's hand all the way back into his suit jacket, where it disappeared to leave behind a feeling of emptiness.

"So," Romano continued in a tone of finality as he examined the ambitions of the men standing before him, "Do we have a deal?"

Subdued whispers. Then, finally, a tall man with a square jaw stepped up. "How do we know you'd keep your promise?"

"You don't," Romano shrugged again, "But I will. I don't care about power or money in this wretched place. My goal is revenge. The La Barberas are becoming an eyesore, anyway."

Another round of whispering among the _mafiosi_. Then, they answered. "We'll do it."

* * *

><p>"Romano was so scaaaryyyy!~" Spain whined as they proceeded down the pebbled shore path towards the docks. "Boss is frightened!"<p>

"_Ehi,_ shut up, _bastardo_. It's all your fault!" Romano snapped impatiently.

"Huh?"

"Whose fault is it that I grew up watching you and that bearded bastard France at each other's throats* all the time, huh?"

"Romanooo! Boss is sorry! Boss is a failure as a parent!" Spain cried, clinging to Romano's arm and on the verge of tears.

"Stop being so dramatic, _coglione_! …Alright! Alright! It's not your fault! Now shut up, your apologies are annoying!" The Italian shook off the Spaniard's grip rather harshly.

Romano breathed a sighand straightened his coat, "It's just that I know how to deal with _those_ kind of people from experience. They don't give a rat's ass about the civilians of this town, so you've got to convince them from their perspective."

However, Spain's reply was tinted with concern. "But don't you think it's a bit dangerous to use _that_ kind of incentive? Won't they end up fighting over the spoils and cause even more trouble?"

"I know that, but it's the only option we have right now. We have nothing else to offer them, and what these so-called 'rebels' want is just a slice of the cake. As long as they do their job properly and mess up the family's system, we can strike for the core. If we get rid of the big bosses, these underlings will fight among themselves and eventually tire each other out. Besides, the other big families are just thrilled at the fall of Palermo Centro. One of them will definitely take hold of this area sooner or later. This is the best we can do for now. The fight with the mafia will be a long one, but I'll just have to try my best once I get back to mainland."

They were silent for a while as they approached the beaten docks, waves crashing against the shores like violent howls of anguish. The howls bashed against the small yacht docked against the wooden platform, shivering and shaking against the winds. The bright orange glow that lit up the inside of the cabin seemed to flicker with each bout of foam and wind.

Romano stopped in front of the yacht door. "Don't you think this is a bit conspicuous?" he asked with a frown.

Spain shrugged nonchalantly. "Well, so far no one even bothered to notice us."

"Or they _have_ noticed but didn't conveniently inform you about it!"

"Well—" Spain began, but was cut off by the door being suddenly flung open in their faces.

They were greeted with a deep-throated and thoroughly aggravated bellow. "_Hoi!_ If you want to bicker, then get your butts inside and bicker!"

"Netherlands?"

* * *

><p>The tall blonde man glanced down at Romano with his usual half-bored, half-irritated, and thoroughly intimidating gaze. He drew in a deep inhale from his pipe and blew out a long stream of smoke, which was quickly dispersed by a strong gale of wind. Romano could only stare back dumbly, stunned by his sudden appearance. He hasn't seen the Dutch man ever since the beginning of the War, and he was certainly the last person Romano expected to see in Sicily. He was always too fond of his clean rivers, wide valleys, and endless windmills.<p>

Netherlands's eyebrow gave an annoyed twitch. "What're you staring at? Get in! Now! Both of you!" he boomed over the loud gusts of wind.

Romano tripped his way inside the yacht cabin, followed by Spain, who smiled awkwardly at Netherlands as he passed. The door shut behind them with a clang. And it was suddenly quiet. The winds bashing at the cabin was reduced to only a low hum, and the boat was surprisingly steady in the angry waves. Heavy, sturdy, and steady. All the marks of a good German-made product.

Romano sighed, and searched for the owner of the boat. He mildly surprised, since the room was uncharacteristically posh for Germany's taste. A few comfortable sofas, a coffee table, and a few drawers were neatly arranged around the room. The ceiling was low, but the light colors of the furniture managed to give the room a more spacious feeling. _What the…this almost feels like…_

"_Bonjour, _little Romano! _Ça fait longtemps_*_!_ Big brother has missed you!"

France burst through a door to the side with his arms wide open and a wider smile plastered to his face. Romano took one look and felt an involuntary shudder pass down his spine. "I'm not going to hug you if that's what you're waiting for, pervert!"

France immediately deflated into disgruntled protests. "How disappointing. Why can't you be cuter like your brother?"

Romano took a step backward and, noticing the French man's flashy red shirt, let out an exasperated groan. "Are you asking to be shot or something?" But before France could reply indignantly—

"Romaano!" When the shrill cry reached his ears, he was already being choked in a tight bear hug.

"Belgium? What're you doing here!" he gasped through her vice-like grip.

She finally released him, and put her hands on her hips matter-of-factly. "Who else do you think could design perfect cyanide chocolates on such short notice?"

"Ah…_si_…"he muttered to himself, a little bothered that so many people had to come all the way down to Sicily to clean up _his_ mess. It was more than embarrassing, really.

Then, an abrupt thought struck him. "So, if you're the chocolates…" –turning to France—" and you're the wine…" –France flashed him a smug grin. Romano ignored him, then spun around to face Netherlands questioningly—"then what…"

"Tch. The sapphire, idiot," Netherlands scoffed as he puffed on his pipe, then added threateningly, "But it's on a _loan_ _only!_"

Romano automatically backed away, the murderous intention on Netherland's face sending an icy chill down his spine. He glanced over Netherlands's shoulder to Spain, who could only muster an awkward chuckle. _Merda…really shouldn't have made those promises to the mafiosi_, he thought as he tried to hide his edginess. But Netherlands was too sharp. His light green eyes narrowed suspiciously and his face instantaneously darkened. "What did you do to it?" he asked in a dangerously low voice.

"N-nothing. It's perfectly safe!" Spain interjected nervously. _Damnit, Spain, you're _not_ good at lying!_

Netherlands whirled around to face Spain, murderous intent written all over his face. "I told you that was grade A merchandise! If anything happens to it…no! I won't tolerate a single scratch! A single scratch, you hear me?"

"I got it! I got it! Ahaha…" Spain said as he took hurried steps backward.

"Haha, I think you're scaring him, _broer_*_." _Belgium quickly grabbed Netherlands and pulled him towards the same door she came through. "Let's go see how Germany is doing."

_Right, where is that potato bastard anyway?_ Romano pondered as they followed Belgium into the adjacent room. His question was answered as soon as he stepped over the threshold into a windowless, square room, lined with sofas against each wall. In the middle was a wide coffee table, currently covered with different sets of maps, all placed neatly side by side. Facing this complex arrangement was Germany, thoroughly concentrated as he sat there, blue eyes studying the maps intently. So intently, in fact, that he did not notice the newcomers' entrance.

* * *

><p>The other four automatically settled down around the table, France and Spain on Germany's left, Belgium and Netherlands on Germany's right. So naturally, so effortlessly, that it suddenly occurred to Romano how useless he was. His hands tightened into fists as he beheld the scene before him, only just able to swallow the salty tears. Here they were, the people he loved and hated. People he pushed away, people he had forgotten, people he mistreated, people he misjudged. But against all odds, they were somehow all gathered in this very room, on this very night, fitting together calmly and naturally, and for what purpose?<p>

"Romano? What's the matter? Sit down." Spain's words brought him back to reality. He was standing awkwardly in the doorway, looking down at his own feet to hide his face.

"R-right…" he mumbled unintelligibly. But before he could sit down next to Spain, Germany abruptly lifted his head, almost as if he was only _just_ aware that the rest of the party had come to join him.

"Ah, you're here. Good, I need your help with something." He gestured at Romano "come over," and, after a brief hesitation, Romano sat down next to the German, albeit uncomfortably. But Germany's full attention was on the map, which, upon closer inspection, was a detailed analysis of Sicily, covered in systematically color-coded marks.

"Here," Germany indicated a spot on the map that evidently bore a few different blue arrows in different directions, but were all scribbled out, "Do you know an alternate route from here to the ghetto?"

"_Éh_, explain from the beginning, you're just confusing him!" France cut in, then turning to Romano, "Just so you know, we've been laboring away at a game plan for the operation while you were enjoying your little reunion with _him."_ France jabbed finger at Spain. Romano blinked, still unable to wrap his brain around how elaborate their preparations had been. All this time, he had no idea…

"_Ach, Entschuldigung_*_._ Basically, we were thinking of having Netherlands go down from the north through here," –he traced the route as he explained, pointing to a route marked in green—"Then he could go from here, and eliminate the largest heroin cache to the southeast. Belgium,"—a route marked in yellow—"could head west along the shore and eliminate the two caches here and here. Then, she'll turn from here and cut through diagonally, eliminate the cache here, then meet up with Netherlands at this plaza here. Then, they'll cut through the major eastern mafia groups' active area to ensure that the job gets done, since it is possible the different rebel factions will end up fighting among themselves. Meanwhile, France," –a route marked in purple—"cuts through the city to the ghetto and destroy this cache on this way, then regulate the mafia groups in the west as he heads straight for Angelo La Barberas' residency. At the same time, you, me, and Spain,"—three parallel routes in black, blue, and red—"will take off from your apartment and cut straight through the center of the city, which is the quickest route, and also the one that will be under the most fire. I will escort you until reaching Salvatore La Barbera, then I will go straight to the ghetto and meet up with France as quickly as possible to eliminate Angelo La Barbera. However, the problem is _here_," he pointed to the blue marks he had indicated before, "After reaching Salvatore's base in the central plaza, there is no quick route to the ghetto. I'll have to zigzag through these streets no matter how I look at this."

Romano nodded, allowing the image of the map to seep into his brain slowly as he drew in each detail. "Alright. Here's what you can do." Germany handed him the blue marker, and Romano drew a straight line that cut straight through the buildings blocking Germany's route. The others all looked to him with puzzle faces.

"There's an alleyway through this row of houses through a crevice between two twin buildings, each five stories high with windows boarded up, about here," –he made a dot to indicate the location—"You can slide through if you turn sideways. Then, as for _this_ row of houses here, look for a shoe shop with a flat roof about here"—another mark—"Once you find it, go in and go through the back, which leads to another alley that cuts straight to the center of the ghetto. If the owner asks, just say Vargas sent you. At that point, you should be only two kilometers or so away from Angelo's location. But my primary concern is that he will already be prepared, what with all the ruckus going around…he's a sly one…"

Germany listened carefully to his instructions, and nodded. Romano glanced around, and found the rest of them all listening intently. His heart jumped a little in surprise. Then, he ducked his head back to the map, and continued, "Also, there's a big cluster of the Don's mafiosi about here, which I doubt the revolting groups could take care of by themselves…"

They discussed strategy for another two hours before everyone agreed on their routes. Romano had filled in several gaps in the routes to speed up their progression, and also pointed out a few caches they did not have marked down.

"Say, somehow this strategy strikes me as strangely familiar…" Belgium commented as they reveled in their finished product.

"Ah, about that," Germany explained, "I borrowed a strategy my _Br__ü__der_ used in the Seven Weeks' War* and applied it to guerilla style warfare, with a few changes of my own."

"Ah, so that's why…"

Spain heaved a deep, nostalgic sigh. "Somehow, I miss that noisy hooligan more than I thought I would."

"_Oui,_" France agreed, "I could see him gloating about his genius war tactics right about now."

Germany remained silent, but there was a certain element of remorse in his countenance. Gazing at the tall German man beside him, Romano felt an immediate pang of a type of sadness he did not understand.

"_Hei, _how are we splitting up the weapons? " Netherlands had left the room and returned with a bundle of guns on his shoulder. He dumped them on the table, pistols, revolvers, assault guns, and all. "Got some Swiss stuff, German, French, oh, here's an English model one we got from _Zwitserland*_ the other day."

"I'll be doing quite a bit of running, so I'll take revolvers," Belgium piped up, already toying around with one of her own models excitedly.

"_Ja, _that will work. Take whatever you're most familiar with, taking into consideration what your route. Also, we're going to use Molotovs, since grenades are too dangerous with civilians this tightly packed near each other. Everyone needs at least one pistol. Also a dagger and sparklers for emergencies," Germany instructed. It was obvious that he had had the entire plan thought out beforehand.

"How long will this last? Big Brother has already sacrificed enough time coming here to play with all of you. I have no intention of overworking myself and getting injured," France mused.

"It'll take no more than five hours. If all goes well, we should be back at the Italian mainland by the morning of the next day," Germany answered as he gathered up the guns and maps.

Spain yawned, as he stood up and stretched his arms. "Well, then, meeting adjourned."

Rising to their feet, all six nations shared a moment of mutual anticipation, woven inseparably with subdued thrill. Now, all that was left was the operation. The most difficult part, but yet the most exhilarating. Every single one felt the distinct tingle that electrified their body and mind. The tingle that belonged on the battlefield, before each fight. However, this was only a small taste of a delicious meal. They knew the real adrenaline, which stole their focus and blinded their sight. They knew the true rush, which manifested in the most animalist instinct of mankind. And they knew that every time, when the excitement faded away into an empty, black hole, they would emerge with crimson hands wrought by death's embrace.

* * *

><p><strong>Palermo, Italy<strong>

**January 17, 1963**

**7:15 pm**

A single knock. Heavy, but brief.

Romano and Spain shared a brief look, then both picked up their pistols from the coffee table and approached the door carefully, gun at the ready. The visitor knocked again, twice this time, with the same heaviness as before.

"_Ich bins, Ludwig_*_," _came the deep, throaty enunciation of the man's native tongue. Then, silence, as the visitor awaited a reply.

Spain reached soundlessly for the doorknob, then abruptly flung open the door in one swift motion as his gun followed rapidly to point straight at an estimated height of the man's chest. However, he found himself gunpoint to gunpoint with Germany, who was directing his pistol right at Spain's forehead.

A sigh of relief passed as they both lowered their weapons. There were no intruders. Spain quickly slid to the side so Germany could enter through the narrow doorway, then locked the door behind him firmly.

"_Perdóname*_," Spain said with an apologetic smile, "I had to make sure."

"It's better to be too careful than not careful enough," Germany agreed as he set down a heavy black bag on the coffee table.

Romano peered into the bag, which was full every imaginable type of firearm, and pulled out a silver submachine gun that caught his eye. He had never seen a similar model before, not to mention its unique structure. He aimed it at a glass of water on a drawer across the room and pretended to shoot, then weighed it in his hands for size.

"Nice gun," he said as he unloaded the cartridge to examine the bullets.

"It's a new, unreleased model. We're not sure about its design yet, so I figured it was best to try it out first," Germany explained as he himself pulled out a black MG 42*.

"Ah, you always make the best weapons. But of course, _Prusia_ must have drilled gun-making into your brain ever since the day you were born," Spain sighed with a nostalgic smile as he picked up a simple pistol from among the submachine guns, "I think I like this one. Simple. A Walther*?"

"_Ja_," Germany nodded, then unzipped another compartment of the gigantic bag. "Here, put these on." He threw both of them a pair of black boots, which Romano instantly knew were top-quality combat boots, and unused judging by the creaseless leather.

"_Grazie_," Romano muttered before he began to unlace his own worn-out boots, gloomily contemplating his poverty-stricken state.

Germany picked out another revolver for himself, then proceeded to clear the table. "All right, are the Molotovs done?"

"Ah, _si_!" Spain immediately retrieved a box from the other end of the room and set it on the table. "We separated them into small bottles and bigger ones. But we made sure the explosions won't be severe enough to deal serious damage to any buildings."

Germany nodded in approval as he examined Spain and Romano's handiwork with a careful eye. The stoppers were all securely sealed—but not so tight that it would cause inconvenience—while the amount of liquid was filled up right below the neck.

Spain laughed a little sheepishly. "You don't need to worry about _my_ Molotovs. They were technically first used in the Spanish Civil War, you know."

"Right, sorry, just, making sure." Germany swiftly cleared the table again and unrolled the map. "We should review the plan," he said without looking at either of his companions, a grave expression on his face.

Romano's brows furrowed a little at this. He continued to examine the German man as each of their routes were briefly summarized and coordination and timing among the six nations were explained. Germany never showed the slightest variation in facial expression other than a rather intimidating frown. _This guy…how does my brother get along with him? They're practically polar opposites! For heaven's sake, this feels just like a military briefing…how does he live like this? Ugh…no. I can't let this get in the way of the operation. I still owe him for way too many things, after all… _

"…and so we'll all meet back up at the dock at approximately 4 o'clock in the morning. If somebody doesn't make it back by that time, then make sure to hide the boat somewhere along the coast while we wait."

_If somebody doesn't make it back…_ Romano watched Spain cautiously from the corner of his eye. The Spaniard was nodding his head with the vigor of absolute confidence on his face, as if he was absolutely sure there was nothing that would go wrong. _Just like that idiota to be so optimistic…he's way too blunt. The plan seems flawless, but then again, doesn't every military strategy _before_ the actual initiation? _ There was a strange feeling in the pit of Romano's stomach, as if something was bubbling uncomfortably on the inside. Bubbling upwards, fighting the walls of his stomach. He was unsettled. Anxiously, he rubbed his fingers together and grinded his teeth, a swirl of panicked doubt suddenly suffocating his train of thought. _We have superior weapons, experience, skills, and knowledge in general…we're trained soldiers, army commanders, and born protectors of our people…but there's a limit to our strength, too. Here, where we have no armies, no imperial right, nor do we have political power…No, I mustn't be careless. There are only six of us. We're vastly outnumbered, we have to destroy their drug factories, defeat the mafiosi, and regulate the fighting to make sure civilians don't get hurt all at the same time. We might not be able to die, but pain is just as horrid. The others are all here for my sake… I can't let them…_He fixed his gaze upon the cheerful Spaniard sitting beside him once more. _No, I can't. _

* * *

><p>"…Alright. That's final," Germany finally finished his lecture, then stood up to take care of the weaponry they had dragged to the other end of the apartment.<p>

Spain flashed Romano a lazy grin and announced, "Since I'm going to be staying up the entire night, Boss needs a _siesta_ right now." He stretched, yawned loudly, then, without warning, flopped down on the couch so that his head landed right on Romano's lap.

Romano felt the blood rise to his cheek and ducked his head to hide his embarrassment. "You _bastardo_! Get your big, fat head off of me!" He immediately sprang to his feet and mercilessly stomped away, ignoring as Spain landed on the floor behind him with a loud thump, followed by the whines of "Romanooo, you're so cruel!"

Romano trudged his way to the next room, and, seeing Germany in the back stocking up on magazines* for his machine gun, slowed to a stop in front of the German man, hands clenched tightly into fists. Germany turned around questioningly, machine gun in hand as he reassembled the MG 42 he had taken apart just to amuse himself.

"Ummm…ah, I don't know how to say this…" Romano hesitated, then continued, stuttering, "But…thank you. For all this. I mean, I haven't changed my mind about the fact that you're a hazard to my brother. Quite the contrary, the more I get to know you the scarier you are! But…thank you anyway."

A long pause. Romano averted his eyes, afraid to meet the Germany's gaze._ Mio dio_*_, this is such an embarrassment!_ But after what seemed like hours of waiting—

"I envy you."

Romano's snapped up in shock, only to find Germany staring back with calm, serene, blue eyes, like the ocean waves after a brutal storm.

"Huh?"

"You see," –Germany returned to reassembling the gun—, "although you got yourself in a mess, you're doing this for your brother. I envy you because of that. The fact that you're doing something, that there's something you can do. Because for my brother, there is nothing I can do but gaze at the wall, day after day. Night after night." The last part of the machine gun clicked into place. Romano gazed up at the man before him, who spoke so steadily such painful words, with that same stinging sadness he could not understand. _Is this sympathy?_ he wondered.

Germany turned away to tend to the sparklers, while Romano simply stood there staring at hi back. _Ok, just say it. Just say it._ Romano drew in a deep breath, hesitating slightly, then, he finally worked up the courage. "Hey...potato bastard."

"Hm?"

"There's one more favor I ask of you."

* * *

><p>1 Compare- what mafiosi call other members who are their equals. Romano is simply using the term here to refer to the men since they're all against the La Barberas, thus equals in revolt.<p>

2 …you and that bastard France at each other's throats- The Great Italian Wars (1494-1559)- a series of battles that arose from conflict between the Habsburgs (Spanish and Austrian royal family) and the Valois (French royal family) over the Duchy of Milan and the Kingdom of Naples. It dragged for a looonnnggg time…

3 Ça fait longtemps- Long time no see (informal) in French.

4 Broer- Brother in Dutch. I know that Belgium speaks French and German, but she's probably used to calling Netherlands in Dutch after so many hundreds of years...

5 Ach, Entschuldigugng- Oh, sorry in German.

6 Seven Weeks' War (1866)- Also, Austro-Prussian War. It was fought between the German Confederation (mainly Prussia) and Austria for control over Germany, which resulted in Prussian domination of the German Confederation and Austria's promise to never interfere in German affairs from that point on.

7 Zwitserland- quite obviously, Switzerland in Dutch.

8 Ich bins, Ludwig- It's me, Ludwig, in German.

9 Perdóname- forgive me in Spanish

10 MG 42- shortened by Maschinengewehr 42, a German light machine gun in service from 1942-1968.

11 Walther PP- a semi-automatic pistol still in use today. They were first produced in 1929 in Germany.

12 Magazine (firearms)- an ammunition storage attached to automatic firearm.

13 Mio dio- God in Italian

* * *

><p><em>Phew, that was a whole lotta work. Half of my spring break that is. xD Hope you enjoyed our surprise visitors! Anewayz, this time, hopefully that next one will ACTUALLY be the last part. I've already extended this story so much already, so i'm hoping i dont have to extend it more. Don't get the wrong idea, i like this but i just really wanted it to be a short(er) story. ^_^' <em>

_So, the usual, reviews reviews reviews! I didn't get enough reviews last time so i wasn't sure how it was...TT_TT Please review, for the sake of Romano and Spain at least! (BECAUSE I'M SO EVIL I'LL KILL THEM AT THE END jk not really xD) _


	7. Part 7

**_Okay, here it is. ZE GRANDE FINALE! I sincerely apologise for pushing back finishing Cosa Nostra for so long! There is an explanation in the after-note at the end! So, without further ado, enjoiiii~~~~ _**

* * *

><p><strong>Palermo, Italy<strong>

**January 17, 1963**

**10:21 pm**

The night was cold. Chilling winds whirred past their ears like an invisible monster, howling with laughter as it sped past. But Romano was glad it was the monster. And not a fusillade of bullets. His freezing hands clenched the submachine gun tightly. It felt as if a layer of ice had sealed his palms to the cold metal. Glancing down, he half-expected his hands to have turned blue. But instead, they had turned a bright-reddish colour. An icy red.

And so they went. Creeping along the crumbling alley walls, three tall, dark shadows faded against the weathered concrete.

"It's freezing," Romano shivered as they paused at a corner. His cheeks were battered a vivid scarlet by the scathing wind, seeping through his suntanned skin, visible even in the dim, flickering streetlights.

"Awn, Roma is so cute!" Spain whispered from right behind Romano's head, "You need to come over to my house more often during the winter. Then you'll get used to the cold weather. Or you can stay all year. That'd be nice, too…" Romano did a double take, not expecting the Spaniard to be breathing down his neck.

"Shut up!" Romano growled as threateningly as possible in a subdued tone, "I'll shoot you!" _Now's not the time to flirt, idiota!_

Germany shushed them sternly, then peeked his head out around the corner again. After a few moments, Romano began to grow impatient.

"Hey, what're you looking at? It's been almost two minutes!"

Germany shushed him again, more urgently this time. Then he asked in a lowered voice, "Is there always a gang of boys hanging around this street at night?"

Romano frowned and shook his head. A gang? What gang would be insane enough to be out at night with the mafia engaged in a violent guerrilla war with each other? He looked around the corner, too, and found a few youths in thin, patched-up trench coats, barely eighteen, loitering against the wall down the street, smoking cigarettes. They appeared rather shady.

"What the hell…" Romano grumbled to himself. They were a strange bunch, their eerie faces lit by the occasional on-off of lighters. One stood leaning against the wall, cigarette in one hand and the lighter in another. Another sat on the ground, drawing something on the concrete with the remnants of a burned-out cigarette. There were two others, one standing and one crouched next to the one drawing. They didn't look like _mafiosi, _but that didn't rule out the possibility either.

"Do they have guns?" Germany asked.

Romano squinted in the dark, but all he could make out were the cigarette lights and a hazy image of their figures. "I don't think so...and even if they did, it would be a hand-sized pistol. Not much of a threat. But somehow, I don't like where this is going…"

"Is there an alternate route?" Germany asked, "We can't just stand here and wait for them to leave. The plan is time-oriented."

"This is the only route that can get us there in time, especially now that we've wasted an entire five minutes standing here holding our guns like a few pubescent soldiers too afraid to fight," Romano answered cynically.

"But we can't shoot them without proof that they're a threat," Spain quickly reminded him.

Boom. And a flare of orange in the far distance, lighting up the dark horizon composed of shabby rooftops for a short moment, then fizzled and faded into the howling wind.

"That must be Netherlands," Germany noted, "We're already behind schedule. We've got to hurry."

Romano thought he could hear the storm of bullets ringing out through the entire city on the other side of these walls, carried by the whispering gales. So what were these boys doing here, smoking nonchalantly as if the fire and bullets were none of their concern?

"Oh, for God's sake…" Romano grumbled, and leapt out onto the street, pointing his gun at the gang of boys.

"Freeze! Put your hands over your head, and I won't shoot!" he yelled over at the boys down the street.

Startled, the four boys immediately slapped their hands over their heads. Romano scowled and rolled his eyes, feeling deeply annoyed that they wasted a whole seven minutes on these kids. Germany and Spain had joined his side—Germany aiming his submachine gun and Spain his revolver. The three approached the boys slowly, forcing their targets backwards.

"That's right," Romano said in a commanding tone, "Just go home. It's the wrong night to be playing outside."

Romano ventured closer to the boys and cocked his machine gun towards an intersecting alleyway, indicating for them to leave this instant. He was now close enough to see the four boys in detail. The one who seemed to be the leader of the gang had a mop of untidy, dishwater blonde hair, his figure awkwardly lanky. The other three were quite reserved, retreating behind the raised collars of their coats. But for some reason, the boys had stopped backing up, though Romano was closing in on them with the gun. Suddenly, a glint in the lanky boy's eyes. In a spit second, his hand flashed, and sent a blur flying through the air.

"Watch out!" Romano heard Spain scream.

Boom! Smash! Wavering white, black, white again, losing focus. Then, the images came flowing in again, shaking with the shock to his head. Germany and Spain had pulled him back just in time, but the inertia of the explosion had managed to throw him back onto the ground, where he smashed his skull into the concrete. He instantly sat himself up and felt the back of his head with his hand. Warm liquid flowed onto his fingers.

"_Vaffanculo!_," he curse. He tried to focus the images swimming around in front of his eyes, but they were shaky and unstable. A blur of colours taking the form of fuzzy blobs, confused further by the smoke that concealed their assailants.

But the surprises weren't over just yet. Bang, bang, bang, bang. Four shots. Followed by four thumps as four bodies hit the ground. But none of the three had made a move to pull the trigger, and the shots emanated from down the opposite end of the street. Romano struggled to his feet, hanging on to Spain's arm as he did so. He squinted and managed to focus on a spot of lighter colour among the darkened shades, which was evidently the back of Germany's head.

"Romano, are you alright?" Spain gushed, unable to hold himself back. He put an arm around the shocked victim protectively, as if shielding a fragile boy.

"I'm fine!" Romano seethed through gritted teeth, pushing the Spaniard away to stand on his own, albeit with difficulty. It was embarrassing, having Spain guard him like he was still a spoiled child. He squinted hard, and the images finally came into focus, though they still wavered as he swayed a little unsteadily on his feet. Germany stood aloof in front of Spain and himself, aiming his gun at an invisible target hidden behind the huge smoke cloud. Romano's grip on his own gun tightened, though sweat was beginning to seep out from his palms. _Germany must see something I can't. It's rumoured that his brother trained him to be able to see a black dot on a wall all the way from the opposite side of a 15 by 15 metre room after all. I really hope that's the truth…_

"Show yourself," Germany commanded in a steady but rather unnatural Italian.

No response.

After a few moments, a figure slowly emerged from within the hazy smoke, as if formed by the dust particles morphing together into a dark humanoid form like a ghost in the night. As it neared, Romano made out a tall figure, with broad shoulders and long legs.

"So you're a foreigner," came a familiar voice. "I've always had the feeling." The figure that slowly approached was becoming more and more recognizable with each step. Then it suddenly struck him.

"Moretti?" Romano's eyes widened in alarm. The man himself finally came into the clear a few metres away from the three nations.

"Who is he?" Spain immediately asked, sensing the tone of urgency in Romano's voice.

"My stalker. The Don's dog," the Italian replied bitterly. He harboured no particular hatred towards Moretti, other than the fact that he was a slippery, sly, and untrustworthy man. He was too unreadable.

Germany aimed his gun with closer precision at this reply, preparing to shoot any moment. But somehow, Romano suddenly found himself feeling the tiniest prick of guilt at the idea of killing Moretti. Spain, meanwhile, glared at the man with increasing hatred.

"He's the one who trapped you here, isn't he? _Bastardo!_" he spat, "What do you want with us?"

All three waited for an explanation, but to their surprise, he suddenly raised his hands over his head, then slowly leaned down to place his pistol on the ground. "I mean no harm to you. Quite the contrary, actually."

Romano's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Explain yourself," Germany ordered stonily. He was experienced with this kind of situation. A negotiation.

"With all due respect, sir. I must explain to Signor Vargas myself." A sudden graveness had come over his gaunt, angular face. Furthermore, Romano had never heard Moretti address him as "Signor Vargas" before.

"It's your choice," Spain said to Romano, but had already extended an arm over in protection. Germany waited for an answer.

Silence. The dust on the night street cleared, along with the buzzing in Romano's ears caused by the shock. He could now once again hear the distant shooting that seemed to bounce back and forth along the walls of alleyways. It was like a virus that ran through the city's veins. Two more explosions. They were running out of time.

"Fine," Romano finally uttered. "Let him approach."

Germany moved to the side and allowed Moretti to walk up to Romano with about two metres between the two of them, but Germany never lowered his gun. Moretti was unfazed, however, and stopped in front of Romano, holding a steady gaze. Then, he spoke.

"Allow me to assist you."

Romano blinked, taken aback. Assist me? His frown deepened. "Clarify," he said, then added, "Quickly."

"Alright. The truth is that I've knew about Signor Carriedo's comings and goings for quite some time, now. It's difficult to miss a new face around here, especially someone so distinctly unfamiliar with this area and so strangely willing to help the poor," he explained calmly, nodding at Spain politely. Spain almost doubled over in shock. _Well, he was never so discreet to begin with..._ "I had a feeling from the beginning that Signor Carriedo had something to do with you," he continued, fixing his unwavering gaze on Romano once again, "You're both different. All three of you. I can't quite describe it, but I just have a feeling." _Damn, why is he so sharp..._ "But I am also sure that you are not a threat. So I would like to offer my help in the overthrowing of the La Barbera brothers."

Romano's eyes narrowed at this succinct explanation. It wasn't anything rare for a member of the _Mafioso_ to desire the overthrow of those in power, but they always had their own dirty motives. Always. "What's in it for you, then? A direct overthrow won't assure your rise to power. In fact, Greco is breathing down our backs right now, so I'm not surprised if he'll take this opportunity and swallow Palermo Centro in the blink of an eye. Don't tell me you're Greco's dog, too."

"No. In fact, I am nobody's 'dog.' My motive is nothing other than revenge on the La Barbera brothers. They tore our life apart, my brother and I. We've been planning our revenge ever since. The only reason I obeyed them for so long is to learn their secrets. It is not an uncommon story,Signor Vargas. Many families have been devastated by this organisation. I'm sure you understand. And unfortunately, my brother and his family did not survive..." A twinge of forlorn in his stony eyes. "But that does not matter. There is little time, and you need my assistance. I know the specific locations of each gang Salvatore La Barbera had stationed around the city. Instead of waiting for them to fire at you as you cut through the city, isn't it easier to ambush them before they have a chance?"

Romano considered his story for a few seconds. It was credible enough. The _Mafioso _had torn apart the whole of Sicily. It was entirely possible that Moretti was just part of the collateral damage. But somehow, he found himself baffled. Drawing a blank. Moretti. He had never thought much of Moretti. He had always been too caught up in himself. Meanwhile...meanwhile all this time..._I'm such a fool, thinking that I'm the only one who was fighting. As this nation's Keeper, I should know that my struggles equate to the struggle of my people. Or rather, _their _struggles equate to _mine. _How could I have been so selfish? So human? However_... "How do I know I can trust you?"

"I have had many opportunities to harm you if I meant any harm. Many chances to turn you over to the Don. Do you seriously believe that no one knew you had gone to Florence until the following day? I was watching the entire time, but I didn't say a word until later when I knew the Don needed you for a job. I've always had a hunch that you could save us somehow, Signor Vargas. You are merciful and I know for sure that you will not hurt us. I don't know who or _what_ you are, but you and your comrades," his dark, onyx eyes skimmed over the three of them, "don't think like the rest of us."

Romano shared a look with Germany, then Spain. Both urged him to make a decision with an encouraging nod. He took a deep breath and said, "Alright, then. I need you to do your best to clear a path for another...comrade of mine. Signor Bonnefoy. He should be near the ghetto right about now, towards the residence of Angelo la Barbera. I need you to guide them. My ally here," –Romano gestured to Germany—, "Signor Beilschmidt will also join you shortly. But for now, we need to get to the centre of town. We don't have much time to waste."

A flicker of a smile across Moretti's face, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come. Romano could not be sure whether or not it had been his imagination. "_Grazie," _Moretti whispered, barely audible, and then he was gone, absorbed into wind-blown night. Then, Romano turned to his two companions.

"C'mon. We're behind schedule."

The two nodded and they sped off again, following the alleyway with frenzied footsteps as their military boots tread the uneven, pebbled ground. Bullets. Bullets back and forth. Closer and closer.

* * *

><p>"Watch out!" Bam! A bright explosion before his eyes, as Romano was yanked back by Spain. The two tumbled back on the ground and landed, skidding roughly to a stop on their knees. The wall right behind where Romano was standing a second ago crumbled and collapsed in front of them with a crash. Then, in his peripherals, a blur of shadow. Faster than his assaulters could react, Romano swung his gun around, aimed, and released a merciless barrage of bullets at his target, the black machinery heating up in his calloused palms. The deafening tack-tack-tack of bullets, then, three thuds on the other side of the alley as his assailants fell. And Romano's finger finally freed the trigger.<p>

"Come on, let's go. No time to waste." He continued on in wide, brisk strides, hand tight around the cold metal. Spain and Germany followed.

As they turned the corner in the ally, Spain caught up to his side and suddenly spoke, sounding distressed, "Romano, you didn't have to kill them so cruelly, you know. You could have just scared them off or injured them."

Romano frowned. "Of course I had to kill them. They almost blew me up."

"...Romano...you've changed."

Romano grew unsettled at the disappointment in Spain's familiar voice. Had Spain ever talked to him like this before? No. He didn't think Spain had. For all these years, when all he did was let his guardian down again and again, Spain had never spoken to him harshly. Never shown any sign of displeasure. But now...why now? What was different? "What do you mean 'I changed?' I've been through two World Wars and countless other wars before that. Don't you think I'd have the common sense to shoot whoever tries to blow me up? They'll come back and try to blow me up again if I let them go."

Spain fell silent for a while. A long, long moment. Somehow, Romano's heart raced erratically. Anxiously. It was disconcerting, this silence. What was the matter? "People like us. We were born for battle, weren't we?" he pursued, glancing at Spain uncertainly, but the Spaniard said nothing. Only averted his eyes. Romano looked over his shoulder at Germany, who was covering their back. Germany didn't respond either, but gave him a meaningful look. Meaningful, but Romano couldn't quite decipher the meaning. What was that in his inscrutable blue eyes? Cold disapproval? No, not quite.

He looked forward again and tried to shake off that unsettled feeling. Meanwhile, the winding alleys grew wider and wider as they continued down the path, expanding to feed into the main street near the centre of town. They were about to enter the heavy danger zone.

Romano stopped at the corner where the alleyway ended, opening up the wide boulevards flanked by grey multi-story buildings. He flattened himself against the wall as he peered out into the quiet, wide square. Germany took to the opposing wall, scrupulously exploring their surroundings with the tip of his gun. But oddly, it was quiet. Soundless. Still. Too much. Too abnormal. Romano was sure it wasn't just his imagination. Those shots moments ago. But...

"An ambush," Germany whispered, his voice low. Romano heard Spain cock his revolver from behind and his grip on his own gun tightened in response. His eyes locked on his target across the square. The grey, worn office building. It emanated an eerie atmosphere as the winds howled down the dust-blown streets. _Damnit...there's nothing we can do but simply sprint across. We'll be free targets, and we have to save up the Molotovs. I only have two on me, for burning the headquarters building when I do get there. And I'm pretty sure Spain has none. Germany can't use his because he's saving them for when he meets up with France..._Romano ground his teeth in aggravation. For some reason, he felt as if a ball of fire was burning in the pit of his stomach. Faster and faster, stronger and stronger, its flames licking the inside of his chest cavity. It was dangerous, the flame. It made him want to demolish everyone who stood in his way.

Suddenly, he heard Germany disengage his magazine*. Then, another click, as he inserted a new one. Romano looked to Germany with a growing frown on his face. The tall man was inching forward, his eyes darting around the scene lightning fast. It was almost as if...

"Listen. We don't have time to waste. I'm going to act as decoy and make a run through. We have superior weaponry, so nothing should go horribly wrong," Germany instructed, giving both the Italian and the Spaniard a solemn nod, "Then, I'll change direction and head straight to meet up with France. That should give you a window of opportunity. Make good use of it. I'll go on three. One, two..."

"Hey, wait, potato bastard-"

"Three!"

And he dashed out into the middle of the square. A storm of bullets lashed out at him from all directions. The left, the right, behind walls, on rooftops..._Cazzo_..._so many of them! Where did all our people go?_

"Romano! Now!" he heard Spain shout, as he was tugged forward violently by the arm.

Pelted. Barraged. Like a thousand small beams of lightning were cracking down onto the centre of the square. Slash! Romano felt a bullet scrape past his face, missing it by less than a centimetre. An icy frisson travelled through his veins, but he didn't stop running. There was simply nowhere to aim the gun. He could only run and run and run. _If they were using machine guns...we'd both be struck down within seconds..._ He could feel blood trickling down the back of his head again. The wound had reopened, and he was losing focus of the images before him. He tried to concentrate on the fountain in the middle of the square but...blurring. Double. Triple...So many lines and colours. Then-

"Oof!" Falling. Right in the face. He had tripped over something in his frenzied sprint.

"Romano!" He heard Spain call his name, then felt himself being dragged along. He blinked hard a few times as he regained some visual acuity, gripping onto Spain's arms as he pushed himself up to sit. Only then did he notice that they were crouched between the back side of the fountain and a large piece of broken marble that was lying on the ground. Romano squinted a little closer at the piece of marble and realised that it was half of a statue from the northern side of town. Then, he twisted his head around to find what he had tripped over. It was a leg. A human leg.

"Is that..." he began, eyes growing wide in fear.

"I believe so," Spain nodded sadly, then turned around and began to pull on something Romano could not see. But soon...soon, Romano knew. Before the leg emerged, and the arm, and the head, Romano knew. It was a dead body, of one of the men _he personally _had sent on this death mission. The men whom he had lured so effortlessly with that enticing sapphire, tucked away neatly in his coat right this moment.

Spain brought the body between himself and Romano, gazing at the dead man's face with half-lidded eyes. The sporadic flashing of bullets bouncing off of the marble and fountain illuminated Spain's features in an odd way. Romano blinked, unsure of the idiosyncrasy that he had glimpsed for the fraction of the second a bullet bounced close to their heads. But it had grown dark again, too dark for him to discern the strangeness that had been in Spain's countenance. Romano shook his head. He could only fix his eyes down at the man's face, too. But...The man? No. He was a boy. He was so young, with a long nose and long eyelashes. Romano reached down to touch his cheek. Cold.

"How old do you think he was?" Spain suddenly asked.

"...Twenty...at most," Romano choked. It was so hard to utter those words. Twenty years old. Only twenty years. "How...m-many?" He was afraid to know. But he had to know. Because...it was his fault. He did this.

"There are...maybe around thirty." Spain made a vague gesture to around the corner of the fountain, where he had found the body. "I think...they hid the bodies behind the fountain and this statue so they could ambush us."

No...thirty? Thirty young men...thirty lives...and how many more? How had it come to this? "_Mio Dio*__... mio Dio..._" Romano heard a nervous, trembling voice mumble. He only vaguely noted that the voice emanated from inside his own mouth. Almost psychotic. Over and over again, as the shower of bullets continued._"Mio Dio..._" He felt his throat cracking. Breaking. His rib cage collapsing in on his heart. But somehow, it still beat. Badump, badump, badump. Nonstop. How long had this heart beat? How many centuries? And yet, he killed in cold blood. So cruelly. So grotesquely. So why didn't his heart just stop? Why didn't his blood grow cold like this boy's body? "_Mio Dio..._they're...they're just..._they're only babies! They're children! And I did this to them!" _ An anguished scream. He crouched over on the ground, fingernails scratching the rough, uneven cement, his forehead scraping the concrete until it bled. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks, dripping onto the ground. He knew what Spain meant now. He had changed. He had become caught up in this cycle of crime he so loathed. He had drowned in hatred and his own ruthless drive for revenge. It had swallowed him up whole when he realised he had the chance to put a bullet through his enemies' hearts. He had become cruel. Just like them. He had so wanted to help his people...but he had forgotten. These poor souls who had lost their ways were also his people. Just as much as any other. He had forgotten that it was not alright to simply kill. He had forgotten order and morals. He had forgotten mercy.

He felt a warm, comforting hand on his back, and then another hand pull him into a tight embrace. He let out another cry of agony and fell into Spain's arms. Why did Spain show him so much kindness? He was a wretch. He was undeserving. But instead, he heard soft, reassuring words.

"It's not your fault, Roma." _Not my fault? After I manipulated all of those...children!_

"How can you...say that? Not my fault? I've lived for over a millennia and never did my fucking job! Never! And when it comes down to something like this, I still mess it up! It's all my fucking fault! I messed up this fucking place and I couldn't protect anyone!" He felt all the words spill out of his mouth. Only then did he realise that they had already been formed. Stored in the back of his throat all this time.

"Don't say that...it's not your fault. Any one of us would have done the same as you did and lured them with incentive."

"No. That's not true. You wouldn't have done it, Spain! You wouldn't have!" he screamed. "Not you! Not Germany! And certainly not my brother!"

He felt Spain breath a deep sigh. Then, "You know that we wouldn't have done it because we don't hate them like you do, Roma. Every one of us have done countless things to seek revenge. The Second World War perhaps would not have happened if not for revenge, would it? You know that. I know that. France and the German brothers both knew it as well as we do now*. But they went on with it, blinded by hatred. And me? As for me..." A slight chuckle. "I've discovered long ago that I am a failure as an avenger. Around the end of the 16th century, we built an armada, Philip* and I. Of course you know that. But what I've never told anyone...is that I was so blinded by religious fervour and personal hatred5. And to this day, I regret the number of men I sent to their deaths...But you have to know that these things can't be undone. So we can only look forward and try to do better tomorrow. And right now, these people need you. So you need to get yourself together, Romano. Everyone's counting on you." As he whispered his last words, he squeezed the sobbing man even tighter. Gradually. Gradually. Romano's tears dried. And all was silent. Even the wind was calm.

"Spain...why are you so kind to me?" That question he could never answer, no matter how many hours, days, weeks, months, years he spent pondering it, tossing it back and forth in his mind.

"Because I love you." So simple. So easy. Spain's words resonated in his ears. '_Because I love you...'_ How did he say it so effortlessly, as if it were a trace of nature that he could breathe through his lips? And yet just four little words could hold such potency. Strength that unfroze the blood in Romano's veins and allowed it to flow again. He clenched and unclenched his fists a few times, as if feeling his own hands for the first time, then finally pushed himself up to sit again. Spain was right. This wasn't the time to be hysterical. He closed his eyes, concentrating hard on the beating in his head, in his chest, bringing it back to steady and level. Right now...right now, he needed to concentrate, so these men didn't die in vain.

And he finally noticed. The bullets had stopped. He opened his eyes. Everything seemed lucid, like his senses had heightened somehow. The tenseness in the atmosphere, mixed with the gunfire in the air, was so thick he could almost reach out and break it with his fingers. His eyes met Spain's luminescent green ones, and his lips parted. _"Grazie..."_ he whispered. Spain nodded with a smile, a twinkle in his eyes. Then, Romano turned his attention back on the empty square before him and the grey, industrial building sandwiched between two smaller ones. The camouflaged headquarters. Peering out from over the broken piece of marble, Romano's eyes scanned the surroundings, the spaces between the buildings, the rooftops...he knew that in every one of these nooks and crannies was someone waiting to shoot him if he tried to make for the door.

"Spain," he said in a low voice, "If I get shot down, you have to finish my job for me."

Spain nodded, and gave Romano's hand a tight squeeze, then, as Romano made a lurch to stand up-

"Wait." Unexpectedly, Spain dragged him down again by the arm.

"Wha-?" But before he could finish, Spain had already pulled him into a deep kiss. And there was electricity. Just electricity. Shocking. Rejuvenating. Bestowing life.

They broke apart, gasping for their breaths. Romano glowered menacingly at Spain, though secretly thanking that the darkness concealed the scarlet colour of his face.

"Now's not the time,_ bastardo_!" The wind had started up again, and his screams were carried away by the gales. He covered his mouth to keep himself from spluttering any further.

Spain gave him a big grin and said, "C'mon."

Romano could only nod, then take out a Molotov from his rucksack. He would never tell Spain, but the kiss worked. Too well. He was abruptly and witlessly filled with thoughts of charging head-on into the gunfire, all his fear numbed and forgotten. He tried to clear his head, blinked, then tossed the Molotov straight into the square, between the fountain and the door.

It shattered, and the flames roared to life. Climbing higher and higher. Immediately, gunshots. But their aims were blind. The fire blurred their vision. Meanwhile, Romano and Spain made a sprint for the door, ducking below the fire's protection, holding their breaths to fend off the black smoke as they passed dangerously near the burning flame. Finally, they reached the other side, both choking for air. But their relief was short-lived, Their assaulters began sending bullets towards them the moment they stopped near the door, even more malicious than before. Romano heard the shots from behind and quickly yanked the door open, shoving Spain in as he fell inside himself. As the steel door shut from behind, he heard the denting of the door on the other side as the bullets embedded themselves into its surface.

He heaved a relieved sigh, leaning against the door. They had only scrapes, cuts, bruises, and burns. Nothing severe. But before the two could catch their breaths...

Suddenly, two strong hands caught his arms from behind. "Let go! Ahh!" Romano wrenched and struggled in vain, stomping, snarling, trying to bite his captor's arm. Meanwhile, he glimpsed Spain fighting off another man next to him, but was just as unsuccessful.

"Don't move." Cold metal against his temple. Gunpoint. Romano froze. His heart was beating out of his throat. He clenched his jaw, chipped fingernails digging into his palm. _It can't end like this. I can't let La Barbera escape! It can't..._And at that precise point, an idea struck him like lightning.

"Kneel," the thick, gruff voice breathed down his neck. He did as was told, and began to tremble and shake all over. The man took his gun and his rucksack and threw them on the floor.

"L-look. I give up, okay? J-just don't...k-kill me..." Romano pleaded fearfully. He saw the alarm grow on Spain's face in his peripherals, but ignored him.

"Tch," Spain's assailant snorted. "Another useless one. And I thought he would've had a little more resistance."

"All of these grunts are useless. Look at this one," the man holding Romano down laughed as he gave Romano a hard kick. "Scrawny as a stick."

With an oof! Romano fell to the floor on his face, nearly breaking his nose on the hard cement. "Ahahaha! Completely useless!" Another kick to his gut. He flopped a little on the floor, coughing out a mouthful of blood.

"Romano!" he heard Spain scream. He turned his head slightly on the ground and gave Spain a quick wink. _Shut up and watch, idiota. _

"You know..." Romano began slowly, twisting his head around to fixate on his captor's shoe. The man was standing over him, a position of complete superiority. "The number one rule of taking someone captive..." Romano continued, "...is to know your enemy."

"Huh? What did you say, punk?"

A flash as Romano elevated himself off the ground with his arms and swept his leg at the his captor's. A loud thud. The man fell to the floor with a startled exclamation. The man holding Spain, distracted by the sudden turn of events, fell, too, with a pained grunt. Spain had elbowed him in the stomach. But Romano's opponent was fiercer than he had expected, and had quickly lunged at Romano, seizing his legs before he could walk away. Romano spun around, surprised at first, then seethed, "You brought this on yourself. In one smooth movement, he swiped out a small, glass bottle from inside his pocket and sprayed its contents, a clear liquid, at the man's face.

_"Aaaaahhhhh!" _ A deafening scream filled the empty building, acid burning into the man's face. "_Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!"_

Spain, meanwhile, had the other _Mafioso _under a headlock. He looked up at the scream and raised his eyebrows at Romano. "Cyanide?" he asked.

"_Si_. It's cruel, but it won't kill him. I really don't have time to waste."

"You go ahead then. I'll deal with these two."

Romano gave his guardian, saviour, and all the other countless things Spain was to him one last fleeting look, then sped into the depths of the building.

Grey. Grey walls, grey stairs, grey railings. Grey cement dripping with water at the corners of ceilings. The sound of his footsteps echoed clearly through the greyness. It was too empty. Romano descended the stairs two by two, his footsteps heavy. Clunk, clunk, clunk. _I have to get there before he escapes. _

Clunk, clunk, clunk. Then, pause, as he reached the door to La Barbera's office. Tentatively, he pushed the door open, gun at the ready. He felt beads of sweat drip down from his temples as he slipped into the grey office. The office where he had suffered humiliation of the utmost kind. Where he was beat and kicked and conquered, like a dog. He glanced at the centre of the room, where a dark bloodstain remained from the day when Paolo died. The dark crimson spilling out from his head. And the vacancy in his eyes. A chill swept over the room. It was as if his ghost still remained.

But the office was empty, the single, armchair vacant and the lamp unlit. Romano could hear his own breathing, heavy with effort, as he crossed the room cautiously, minding each step as if he were in a minefield. But there was nothing. Simply nothing. How could he have escaped? There was only one exit out the building, and that was the entrance. _What if he'd known beforehand...maybe he set up an empty trap. But how could he have found out? _

Suddenly, the steel door caught his attention. The one he had been incarcerated in when he had first been captured. Romano frowned. It was slightly ajar. _But it's just a closed, cramped space. There's no way La Barbera would hide in there, awaiting his own death..._ He carefully nudged the door to open wider with the tip of the gun. Nothing. As bare as the rest of the room. Romano heaved a sigh in desperation, but something told him to inspect the room further. This little closet held no pleasant memories for him, but he stepped in anyway. It was barely wide enough to fit him with the submachine gone and rucksack and all. He made a motion to step out, then-creak! The floorboard beneath his foot. His brows furrowed once again as he bent down to examine the floor. It was grey with dust and scattered marks of footsteps where he had tread. But...why would there be so much dust in a closet that was used almost every week for storing captives? And it was at this point that he noticed something was odd. If he squinted closer, there seemed to be another man's footprint in the dust other than his own. One that was slightly bigger and _not_ of the military boots he wore. He brushed his hand over the floor, heart beginning to race, and traced a distinct crack in the floorboards with his finger. He quickly wiped away the rest of the dust to discover a shoulder-length, square trap door. His eyes widened in excitement as he hurriedly pried the door open. It was heavier than he had thought, and led down to...he couldn't see. It was completely dark. _No time for hesitation. I'll have to risk it_.

He sucked in a deep breath and jumped. Thud. He didn't have time to brace himself as he hit the floor. The fall was unexpectedly brief, and when he picked himself up, he noticed that the tunnel he was currently standing in was barely high enough to allow him to stand straight. A flicker of light to his left caught his eye, and Romano immediately sprinted towards the light. _I can't let him get away. That sly bastard...he can't have gotten far. Knowing him, he won't ever leave behind his precious money. It would've taken him quite a while to gather all that cash, and by the looks of it, he hadn't had warning prior after all. It's just that we wasted too much time getting here. _The tunnel soon began sloping upwards, becoming narrower and narrower until he had to duck his head.

The night air pierced his skin as he charged out into the open. He found himself in the back alley directly behind the building. The wind had calmed, but the clouds were still stirring in the dark, black sky. Romano turned around to face the headquarters building, fished out the last Molotov in the rucksack, and set the building aflame. Burning, crumbling, spreading. By morning, it'll be burned down to ashes from top to bottom.

He turned his back on the fire and was about to leave when he realised he was standing in a puddle of sticky mud. He swore, lamenting the fact that he had dirtied the boots. He hadn't had a nice pair of shoes for four years. But his eyes soon traced the puddle of mud to...muddy footprints. Similar to the ones in the steel room. Frenzied and splattering, dashing down the alley and turning right at the opening ahead. Romano whooped in joy and instantly sped off, following the footprints. After a few minutes of wild chasing and the violent drumming of blood in his skull...

A blur. A single blur of motion around the corner ahead. But there was no mistaking it. It was Salvatore La Barbera.

Romano jolted forward instinctively, speeding up even more. It had been a while since he was in military training camp, but his strength and agility was slowly coming back to him. He turned the corner, skidding over the dirt floor with his heels. He could see him now. La Barbera's running figure. He had a large, metal suitcase in his hand.

After nearing the target a little more, Romano took out the pistol strapped to his belt and shot at the alley wall directly next to La Barbera. Bang, bang, bang! Three resounding shots. With a startled exclamation, La Barbera jerked to one side and fell.

_Perfect! _Romano dashed over and faced him, a gun pointed at La Barbera's face. The face that he found so repulsive, with its monstrous eyes full of malice. So conniving and wicked that Romano wanted to shoot him right there, a hole straight through the forehead. It would end everything. Bring peace to Romano's perturbed mind. But the images of dead bodies flashed across his mind. No. The memory was too fresh and too deeply carved into his brain. The young men he had sent to their deaths because of this insatiable thirst for revenge. He had to control himself. So he merely pointed his pistol at the glowering Salvatore, who scrambled for his own gun and pointed it up at Romano.

"Give it up, _Don_." Romano spat out the words like it was filth. "You have nowhere to run."

"Why didn't you just shoot me?" he snarled. "With _that_?" His dark eyes flickered to the submachine gun strapped across his shoulder. Yes, it was true that La Barbera couldn't have possibly stood a chance if Romano had simply opened fire at him through that narrow alley with a machine gun. He would have fell to his death with a fusillade worth of bullet holes embedded into his back. But Romano hadn't, and he didn't regret it.

"Don't think I'd lower myself to the likes of you," Romano said coldly, then cocked his pistol. "Now stand up. You're coming back to Rome with me."

"And what?" he spat menacingly, "Turn me in to the authorities? Put me on trial?"

But with icy indifference, Romano replied, "Exactly."

La Barbera's eyes narrowed, the lines on his face twisting his countenance into a cruel sneer. Slowly, he got to his feet, never breaking with Romano's cool, calculating gaze. Then, his lips widened to a grotesque grin. It sent a cold shiver down Romano's spine.

"Did you think..." he began, taking a daring step forward, gun still steady in his hands. "...that I'd actually just go quietly without a word?" Romano lurched forward in alarm, but it was already too late. La Barbera suddenly pointed his gun at the window above Romano's head and fired a shot. Bang! The glass shattered. Followed by a woman's startled scream that pierced the night.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING? THOSE ARE CIVILIANS, BASTARDO!" Romano's scream cut through the fabric of the night, shredding it open layer by layer as his voice echoed out from the epicentre. He cursed himself for letting his own fears distract him.

La Barbera sneered in triumph, gun still pointed at the window. "I think I've made myself very clear. Now, _Signor Italiana,_ if you will kindly let me go. I don't want to kill the pathetic, snivelling scum either, but my bullets don't have eyes."

Romano took a step backwards, sweat dripping down from the tip of his nose, jaw clenched desperately. A million different strands of thought, a thousand different fragments, were whizzing through his head, confused and conflicted. _Merda...I can't...let him escape...but I can't just let him shoot down innocent people. Even if I shoot him right now...his bullet might take another civilian's life. And I can't let that happen..._

But before he could make his decision, their stand-off was broken by footsteps. Swift footsteps suddenly skidding to a stop behind him. "Romano!"

"Sp-"

Bang! Bang! Two gunshots, one right after the other. And then, everything seemed to happen too quickly. The first bullet whizzed past Romano and found its target. With a loud thud, Romano heard Spain fall to the ground behind with a scream of agony, while simultaneously, Romano let out a wail.

"SPAIN!"

Meanwhile, the second bullet, the one Romano had shot, missed its target just, gracing the side of La Barbera's face. Romano spun around in panic to Spain clutching his bleeding leg, kneeling on the ground. Then, he twisted back to find La Barbera's running figure already growing smaller and smaller in the distance. But before he could react-

Another gunshot. Then, a defeated thud. La Barbera crumpled to the ground like a rag doll right before his eyes. And Romano was stunned to find none other than Moretti standing on the opposite side of the alley, gun pointed straight at where La Barbera used to be standing. And for a moment, everything was silent. As Romano helped Spain to his feet. As they approached La Barbera's body. As their eyes glanced off of the bullet hole on the left side of his chest. As they watched the crimson blood spill out onto the dirt ground. As the ground soaked up his filthy blood. And only one thought occurred to Romano. _How awful he was in life, and how pathetic he is in death. I wonder if I ever died, I would be just as pathetic?_

Then, the moment passed. And Moretti's low voice pulled Romano out of his thoughts.

"You are merciful, Signor Vargas," he said unwaveringly, "But I'm afraid I cannot be as benevolent."And the shadow of a smile passed across his face.

Romano softened slightly and replied, "_Grazie_, Moret-... Signor Moretti."

Moretti nodded in acknowledgement, then turned to the direction of an ocean breeze that had began to pick up. "This isn't the end." he stated, as if contemplating.

"No, it's not," Romano agreed, "But it's time for me to leave." A pause, in which everything seemed too quiet and calm. "Would you like to come with us? I'm sure you could make a living on the mainland."

"Thank you, Signor Vargas. But I still have to find my nephew. He's the only remaining member of our family alive, you see. And he's only barely eight years old. But of course, I shall see you to the docks."

And with that, the three men began gradually towards the sound of stirring, ocean wave, Spain leaning on Romano's shoulder. The sea had calmed and mellowed. The wind had subsided. All was not well. But all was tranquil for that single moment in time.

* * *

><p><strong>Palermo, Italy<strong>

**January 18, 1963**

**2:17 am**

The little yacht swayed lazily to the gentle caressing of the waves. The moon had finally peeked through the clouds, shedding its misty rays upon the ground like a mistress of the night. Romano and Spain stopped in front of the yacht to find Netherlands and Belgium already waiting for them. It was evident that neither escaped unscathed. Netherlands was helping his sister with a rather ugly bullet wound dangerously close to her rib cage, while Netherlands himself had sustained a few less dramatic injuries on his shoulders and chest. France and Germany had yet to return.

"Not another one," Netherlands groaned, rolling his eyes at Spain's bullet wound. "Come 'ere, _idioot*__."_ Then, he continued to grumble about how they couldn't even defeat a few stray grunts without getting themselves shot.

Romano heaved a relieved sigh, then turned back to face Moretti. The man's features seemed oddly defined under the moonshine. A tall, long, and slight-crooked nose, dark brown eyes, and slightly-creased face covered in bruises, dirt, and cuts.

"Your friends Signor Bonnefoy and Signor Beilschmidt should be relatively unhurt," he explained. "But I can't guarantee they'll be able to catch Angelo La Barbera. No matter how cruel Salvatore was, his brother was always the more slippery one."

Romano nodded and gave him a wan smile. He was so exhausted he could fall asleep right on the spot.

"This is where I leave you," Moretti said politely. "Good luck, and thank you. All of you."

But, as he turned around and began to walk away, Romano suddenly stopped him on impulse. "Wait! ...It'll be extremely dangerous for you from here on out, especially now that you're a rogue. Come with us. You'll be safe on mainland. I can even arrange a job-"

"Thank you, Signor Vargas, for your kindness. But to be frank, I find you and your friends to be...too different. Different, and also dangerous. I don't know if you're trained soldiers or government agents, but the way that you handle weaponry is quite frightening. And also, forgive me, but I don't make it a habit to indebt myself to others." A pause, then, "But I do intend on leaving this place, once I find my nephew. It's not safe here."

Romano chewed on his bottom lip, but finally gave in. "Fine. But at least let us treat your wounds. They won't be able to heal properly if you keep exerting yourself like this."

Before Moretti could respond, Romano heard the sound of laughter. A child's laughter. Coming toward the docks. And soon, France appeared, followed by Germany, carrying a boy on his back. A laughing boy, who was trying to learn French from whom else but France himself? But Romano's attention was trained on the boy. Elpidio. Romano cracked a smile. Hope, the boy had said. He was named after hope.

Elpidio saw them as he approached, and waved with a big grin on his face. "Signor Vargas! Signor Carriedo!" he called.

Romano chuckled with relief. The boy hadn't been hurt in the crossfire.

"Hey! Little tyke," Spain yelled from behind Romano, waving back.

"Stay still!" Romano heard Netherlands snap at Spain as the two struggled with bandages.

Then, Romano noticed something was wrong. It was Moretti. He seemed dumbfounded, his eyes fixated on the boy on Germany's back. Romano frowned.

"Signor Moretti?"

No answer.

Then, as the two nations and the child neared, Elpidio abruptly asked for Germany to put him down. Germany obliged, and the moment Elpidio's feet touched the ground, he sprang over to Moretti and gave him a quick hug.

"_Zio*__!_" he exclaimed in surprise. "What're you doing here?" Even in the dark, Romano could see that his eyes had grown big with joy. But..._Zio? So when Moretti said he needed to find his nephew..._

"_Dio Mio, Elpidio!" _It was the first time Romano had ever seen Moretti make any type of interjection. Or show so much emotion, for that matter. "I never expected to see you here! Where have you been hiding? I wasn't sure you were alive..."

"Well, Paolo hid me real well. He said not to find you because it would bring you trouble."

"Oh, my...you're so thin. You haven't been eating well..."

France and Germany joined Romano's side as they watched the happy family reunion. The two were indeed less injured than Belgium, Spain, and Netherlands, but exhausted nonetheless. The rips in his clothing and cuts on his body aside, France's usual luscious, blonde curls were tousled like a bird's nest caked with what Romano strongly suspected was mud. Meanwhile, Germany had what looked like a burn on one forearm and a few nasty cuts on his calves.

"Sorry, Angelo La Barbera got away," Germany informed apologetically. "It seems as if he had had warning beforehand. Or perhaps he was planning his escape tonight."

Romano bit his lip at this news. Angelo La Barbera, still on the loose...But that was everything they could do for now.

"So. Lots of surprises, then," France yawned at the happy reunion before him. But he couldn't help but smile. "Makes me feel lonely sometimes, you know."

"_Si..._It really does feel a little lonely..." Romano agreed.

"Hey, you should really come with us," Spain called out to Moretti from the dock, where Netherlands had just cut out the bullet in his leg. "There's nothing holding you back now, is there?"

Moretti gazed down fondly at his little nephew and cracked a rare smile. An expression that Romano had never seen him, in the four whole years, make before.

"I suppose so," he said, and even laughed a little when Elpidio whooped in delight.

And so they got into the yacht. All eight of them, one after the other. Once they entered the cabin, Belgium and France both immediately sank down into the sofas and went to sleep. Elpidio snuggled up next to France (whom he had taken a real liking to, against all odds). Romano settled down in an armchair, too, feeling as if he was going to fall part by the joints. After all, it had been four years since he had had a proper meal or a decent night's sleep. And before he knew it, he was dozing off into oblivion. He vaguely noted Spain's hushed voice as a blanket was pulled over his shoulder. He heard Germany start the engine, and soon they were speeding along smoothly in the water. The last remnants of thought that occupied mind his mind was the notion that he didn't want to see Palermo or any part of Sicily for a long, _long_ while.

* * *

><p><strong>Palermo, Italy<strong>

**January 18, 1963**

**5:43 am**

Romano rubbed his eyes as he climbed out onto the white deck.

"_Buenos días*_, Roma," Spain greeted as Romano joined his side at the deck's white railing.

"_Buongiorno*__," _Romano yawned. Spain grinned back. His grin matched the peeping sunlight, Romano thought.

"So what're you going to do once you get back?" Spain asked, inching his face unnecessarily close.

Romano glared, but answered, "I'm going to first of all get my hands on the bastards who sent me there in the first place. Then, I'm going to fire a lot of people. And after that...well, I'll have to file a report...and then hopefully convince my boss to organise the police to take action. It's a whole bunch of crap...but it can't be helped."

"...Okay. But...what _else_ are you going to do?" Spain urged. Romano shot Spain an irritated look. _Why the hell are you looking at me like that? _

"Um...what else? I'm going to...make pizza and pasta with Veneziano." But Spain's grin had softened to a mesmerizing smile, highlighted by clear, brilliant green.

"And...what _else?_" Romano felt the root of his ears heating up.

"What's with that face?" Romano panicked, leaning back as Spain leaned in. The tips of their noses were getting dangerously close.

Spain abruptly seized Romano by the waist and tried to steal a kiss, but the Romano quickly covered Spain's mouth, trying to push him away.

"Get...off...! There are children on board! You pervert!"

"Come on! Just one!"

"NO!"

"Come on! You owe me four years of love!"

"No, I don't! What the hell? Don't just decide that by yourself!"

"Romaaaa..." he whined.

"For God's sake, act your age! Oh, wait, then you'd be _dead_!" Romano retorted. He prayed that Spain couldn't hear his heartbeat drumming against his chest. It was going too fast, and it was all Spain's fault.

"You're so cruel to me..." Spain finally released him. And they just stood, enjoying the comfortable silence. The sea breeze stroked their cheeks, whispering sweet words in their ears, as they gazed out into the distance. The clear, dawn sky met the ocean, tinted red by the orange glow of the horizon. The sun bled out onto the undulating blue, its resplendent rays discreetly splendid. After over a millennia of walking these lands and travelling these oceans, the sun had never deserted them. Never disappointed them once. That great big ball of fire was like a quiet guardian, watching over their days, smiling quietly to himself as he shone on all that was evil, sad, joyous, or beautiful. All that was human.

Romano found his fingers involuntarily intertwined with Spain's as they breathed in the salty sea. He didn't let go. And soon enough, a grey line appeared down the horizon. As they slowly approached, Romano could discern the geometric corners of buildings that formed one long line.

When they reached the docks, Romano found Veneziano waving excitedly at them from on shore. They got off one by one, glad to have solid ground under their feet again after a tiresome night of rocking.

"Ve! _Fratello! Ben Tornato*__!" _Veneziano greeted. "Everybody else is back, too! Why are you all hurt? Aaahhh! Germany, why is everyone hurt? Ve..."

There was a lot of chatter, a lot of laughter, and a lot of scrambling to make up explanations for Veneziano. Eventually, Veneziano ran off with Elpidio to catch a butterfly. The rest of them were too tired to stop them. But as everyone else rushed to get into town and into a real bed, Romano trailed behind on the docks, Spain perched beside him. He still had not let go of Spain's hand. And as they gazed off in the direction of Sicily, Romano knew that this was not goodbye. Not really. One day, he'll set foot in that town again. And hopefully, that day, the town will be free.

Fin.

_**On January 17, 1963, both the La Barbera brothers disappeared. **_

_**Salvatore was never heard of again. It was suspected he had fell victim to lupara bianca (a method of killing used by the Mafia in which the body is hidden). His body was never found. **_

_**Angelo La Barbera reappeared a few weeks later in Milan giving a press conference. He was shot and severely wounded, then caught, put on trial, and sentenced to death. **_

_**On June 3, 1963 a bomb exploded in Ciaculli and killed seven police officers and military men sent to defuse the bomb. This incident became known as the Ciaculli massacre. General outrage at the Ciaculli massacre prompted the first anti-Mafia actions taken by the government since the end of WWII. **_

_**The Sicilian Mafia have long had relations with powerful figures in politics and control over cocaine trade. By the 1990s, Cosa Nostra had been significantly weakened, thus yielding to other crime organisations, most notably Ndrangheta from Calabria. Today, illegal drug trade and organised crime continues in South Italy.**_

* * *

><p>1 Magazine- I've mentioned this once before in earlier chapters, but just in case you forgot, a magazine is the ammunition storage in a gun.<p>

2 Mio Dio- My God (Italian)

3 The Second World War...both knew it as well as we do now- The explanation for what Spain said here is controversial and only part of a complicated truth. The reparations demanded of Germany after WWI was so large that it was impossible for him to pay it back, especially with the post-war economy. England took mercy and said "don't pay us," but France held a grudge (for many, MANY reasons) and tried to force the Germans to pay him back. This conflict continued, so America stepped in and enacted an economic plan that would circulate American money to help the European economy, especially the Germans. However, the market crash of 1929 led to the collapse of this entire system, and Germany was hardest hit in Europe. German unemployment rate soared to above 30% (an IMMENSE amount. American unemployment rate is currently around 8 and 9 and we're having issues...), which gave the Nazis a chance to take power by using the unfairness of the conditions forced on Germany after WWI (Treaty of Versailles) to motivate the discontent people into blind support of the party. And it went from there...

4 Philip II of Spain (21 May 1527 – 13 September 1598)- Spanish king famous for being ruling Spain in its Golden Age, fighting the Spanish-Dutch Wars (For Dutch independence), and also the Spanish Armada's attempt on an English invasion.

5 The Spanish Armada of 1588- The famous attempt by Philip II to take over Protestant England and unite Europe under the Roman Catholic Church ended in failure. The English protected their homeland gallantly and the Spanish Armada ended up smashing to bits on the shores of England thanks to a very unfortunately-timed storm.

6 Idioot- quite obviously, idiot in Dutch.

7 Lo Zio- Uncle. But I was also told that you can call someone like your father's close friends "Zio."

8 Bueonos días- Good morning in Spanish, though that's quite commonly known.

9 Buongiorno- Good "morning," though it could be used all the way until evening apparently.

10 Ben Tornato- Welcome back in Italian (male singular)

* * *

><p><em><strong>Phew! By God, that was a whole lotta work! First, a disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz, who is just amazingful down to his core. Also, my portrayals of historical figures is conjured purely from my own imagination! Do NOT use as a reliable resource! And to elaborate on that note, I have never in my life set foot in Italy, much less Sicily, so forgive me for cultural errors! From the geography of Palermo to the descriptions of the historical events that took place, it is MY impression to make everything fit the story! Furthermore, I have just RECENTLY (less than a day ago) discovered, to my utter chagrin, that submachine guns, especially back in the day, are NOT considered light weaponry, thus the amount of chasing and movement described in this chapter would be quite impossible for a normal human. Please forgive me for this discrepancy and pretend that since they're countries, they have superhuman strength (especially Germany with a MG4 O.o) And with that said...<strong>_

_**I'm glad (and sad) that I'm done with this fic. So since this is the last chapter, I'm going to make a few shout outs!**_

_**To The Strawberry (who is the Spamano-obsessed person who I dedicate this fic to. My best friend!) who is always so worried over stuff that I'm worried over her! HAVE CONFIDENCE, STRAWBERRY, YOU ARE AWESOME! Prussia agrees! ;)**_

_**To my friends at Yahoo! Answers who seriously are a huge help, since there's nothing like getting accounts of cultural habits/language from natives!**_

_**To my hero (not you, Alfred) Himaruya, whom I hope is doing okay! He's been MIA since early January! Oh, no! Stay strong, Hima-papa!**_

_**And lastly, to my awesome reviewers/subscribers/followers/readers who have stuck with this 'till the end, or have just discovered this now! I really hope you liked it! Please review and critique because when I have time, I DO go back and re-edit. **_

_**And as an apology for this super belated chapter/ending, I will offer an explanation for my short hiatus. I had been at first busy with final exams, and then busy with another HUGE Hetalia Fanfiction project I had taken on, The Art of Being Young and Beautiful. *Hold as I shamelessly advertise* It is NOT historical, unlike my other fics, and written in a more modern style. It consists of two main storylines, PruHun (my OTP) and USUK (a close second), and have side pairings of Spamano (haha, lots of love for those two) and Swissaus. It is a real world AU, set in modern day London, about a rather unique restaurant called the Hub, in which all our favourite Hetalia characters, here reincarnated as uni students and graduate students from all over the world, work, live, and love. (yay! Finally, just romance and no bother about historical accuracy!) If, that is to say, IF you are interested, please click on my username and it'll lead you to the stories I've written. You can find it there. Sorry, there's no way I can insert a link here! By the by, thank you for reading!**_


End file.
